UC-NRLF 


o* : 


LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIKT     OF 

T  M/r&  .    /f  cm/v\y    v 
Received"  OCT  29  1892 


^/  ccessions  No. 


H  O  Q  2-^; 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTICE 

TO  THE  NEW  EDITION  OF  SELECT  POEMS. 


THE  present  volume,  carefully  revised,  having  re- 
ceived  the  addition  of  several  poems,  and  of  two  illus 
trative  plates,  the  publishers  hope  will  be  thus  rendered 
more  acceptable  to  the  public, — who  have  regarded  its 
previous  editions  with  favour,  as  evinced  by  the  follow 
ing  opinions : 

Extract  from  a  Review  in  the  "  American  Monthly  Magazine,"  N.  York. 

"Mrs.  Sigourney's  poems  are  scarcely  less  peculiar  for  their  straight 
forward  common  sense,  their  pure  and  unobtrusive  religion,  and  their 
deep  vein  of  natural  tenderness,  than  for  their  correct  versification, 
their  harmony,  and  their  true  poetry.  Very  different  as  she  is  in  her 
general  style  from  the  English  Sappho,  for  so,  not  absurdly,  has  Mrs. 
Hemans  been  styled,  'we  conceive  that  there  is  still  something  kindred 
in  their  spirits.  Mrs.  Hemans  is  the  high-souled  and  delicately  proud 
poetess  of  an  old  dominion; — her  lays  are  full  of  the  noble  chivalry  of  a 
etate  whose  associations  are  of  aristocracy ;  she  is  the  asserter  of  heredi 
tary  nobility, — the  nobility  of  thought,  of  action,  and  of  soul, — no  less  than 
of  broad  lands  and  ancient  titles  ;  yet  withal  she  has  a  thousand  sweet  and 
simple  songs  of  the  cottage  and  the  lowly  hearth.  Mrs.  Sigourney  is  the 
Hemans  of  a  republic  ;  and  if  she  rather  delights  to  dwell  in  the  hamlet, 
to  muse  over  the  birth  of  the  rustic  infant,  or  the  death  of  the  village  mo 
ther,  it  is,  that  such  is  the  genius  of  her  country, — the  boasted  associa 
tions  of  her  land,  are  simplicity  and  freedom; — and  as  befit  the  muse  of 
such  a  land,  so  are  her  meditations  fain  to  celebrate  the  virtues  of  hei 
country's  children." 

From  the  "American  Traveller,"  Boston. 

__"  No  poetess  in  our  country  has  taken  a  purer  flight  through  the  realms 
of  imagination  than  Mrs.  Sigourney.  There  is  a  chaste  dignity,  a  clear 
sweetness,  a  devotional  delicacy,  pervading  all  her  effusions.  She  in 
structs  while  she  delights,  and  elevates  while  she  refines.  Every  page 
breathes  the  life  of  poetry,  and  the  purity  of  religion.  She  pleases  the 
aged  and  delights  the  young.  The  mourner  may  gather  consolation  from 
her  musings,  the  thoughtless  find  themes  for  reflection,  and  the  inexpe 
rienced  may  yield  their  imaginations  and  their  hearts  to  her  guidance, 
without  fear  of  being  betrayed  into  folly,  or  misled  into  error." 

Extract  from  the  "  New-Hampshire  Patriot." 

"  We  are  pleased  with  the  liberal  spirit  of  devotion  which  is  scattered 
through  every  part  of  this  volume.  Whatever  we  meet  with  at  the  hand 
of  man,  we  are  delighted  to  see  the  brows  of  woman  adorned  with  the  bios- 
Eoms  of  piety.  The  voice  that  sows  the  germs  of  thought  in  our  minds, 
should  be  chastened  by  the  holy  influences  of  relision.  The  mild,  peaceful 
doctrines  of  Jesus,  should  be  implanted,  before  the  wild  passions  of  youth 
grow  up.  Hence,  these  poems  are  fitted  for  the  nursery,  as  well  as  the 
parlour.  We  hope  every  woman  will  peruse  them  over  and  over,  untu 
she  shall  imbibe  a  measure  of  that  spirit  which  ijave  them  utterance." 


ft  PUBLISHER'S  NOTICE. 

From  the  "  Saturday  Courier,"  Philadelphia. 
Not  "  Orient  pearls  at  random  strung," 

But  Western  gems  in  casket  set; 
Words  that  by  seraphs  might  be  sung, 
And  flow'rs  by  Heaven's  own  dew  drops  wet. 

"  There  should  be  a  double  pride  connected  with  this  beautiful  work— a 
pride  in  the  distinguished  authoress,  that  her  fellow  countrymen  have 
called  for  a.  fourth  edition  of  her  lovely  gems— and  a  pride  in  those  country 
men  that  one  of  America's  daughters  possesses  the  soul  and  the  genius  to 
write  them.  One  word  in  commendation  of  Mrs.  Sigourney't  poems, 
would  be  considered  unnecessary,  as  many  of  them  are  as  familiar  as 
household  words.  But  the  very  elegant  manner  in  which  the  publisher  has 
got  up  the  book,  calls  for  special  praise.  In  binding,  ornamenting,  and 
plates,  it  has  every  appearance  of  a  four  or  six  dollar  annual,  while  in  the 
perennial  and  sterling  character  of  its  letter  press,  it  is  worth  half  a  score 
of  them,  and  costs  but  about  one-third,  we  believe,  of  one  of  them/ 

From  the  "Presbyterian,"  Philadelphia. 

"From  the  many  specimens  of  this  lady's  poetry,  with  which  we  have 
graced  our  columns,  our  readers  will  before  this  have  concluded  that  she 
is  with  us  an  especiij  favourite.  And  in  truth  she  is.  Her  pure  taste, 
delicate  imagination,  piety,  and  what,  in  our  opinion,  is  an  indispensable 
attribute  of  a  true  poet,  her  good  sense,  have  won  our  esteem.  This 
volume  contains  many  beautiful  gems,  and  moreover,  they  are  presented 
in  a  very  pretty  casket." 

From  the  "  United  States  Gazette,"  Philadelphia. 

"The  writings  of  Mrs.  Sigourney  are  familiar  to  almost  every  American 
reader,  und  the  general  expression  of  praise  which  has  been  so  liberally 
bestowed  by  the  critic,  the  savant,  and  the  mere  general  reader,  is  such  aa 
to  warrant  us  in  saying  that  she  possesses  more  than  ordinary  merit,  and 
indeed  superior  excellence  characterizes  the  emanations  from  her  pen. 
The  volume  which  has  just  been  published  by  Mr.  Biddle,  should  be  in  the 
possession  of  every  female  reader  in  the  country — its  perusal  cannot  but 
excite  the  purest  emotions,  and  produce  the  happiest  impressions. 

"It  contains  poetry  of  a  pure  and  elevated  order,  such  as  cannot  but  be 
road  with  admiration.  No  one  possessing  the  ordinary  attributes  of  hu 
manity,  or  whose  feelings  are  in  accordance  with  a  healthy  sensibility, 
can  peruse  these  poems  without  being  forcibly  struck  with  their  excellence, 
and  reminded  of  every  thought,  sensibility  and  feeling  of  the  soul,  of  by- 
jrone  days,  of  youthful  aspirations,  and  all  those  varied  impulses  of  the 
heart,  which  at  the  time  were  sources  of  joy  or  grief,  and  in  their  remi 
niscence  bring  to  the  fountain  of  the  soul,  sensations,  which  if  even  they 
are  of  a  saddening  nature,  are  'pleasant  to  the  soul.'  " 

From  the  "  Scioto  Gazette,'"  Chillicothe,  Ohio. 

«  No  American  lady  has  written  so  much,  or  so  well,  as  the  authoress  of  the 
beautiful  book  now  before  us.  None  has  exercised  a  better  influence  upon  the 
minds  of  her  readers.  In  social  life,  gentle,  courteous,  unassuming  ;  warm  m 
her  friendships,  and  wise  in  her  benevolent  and  well-directed  sympathies,  as  a 
writer  she  is  all  the  same.  Her  works  are  healthful  in  their  character :  and  if 
unmarked  by  any  of  those  startling  flights  which  seem  scarcely  consistent 
with  a  well-balanced  intellect,  are  yet  well  sustained  and  imbued  with  a  pure 
and  a  truthful  spirit.  That  several  editions  of  Mrs.  Sigpurney's  "Select 
Poems"  should  have  beon  so  rapidly  demanded,  is  a  gratifying  indication  of 
tbo  soundness  of  the  literary  tastes  of  our  country.  We  hope  soon  to  see  a 
,-,,n.l'Ictv  edition  of  her  prose  and  poetical  works.  It  would  form  an  indispen 
sable  addition  to  every  well-selected  American,  library. 


<^0> 
w 


. 


A   HART 


SELECT  POEIS. 


BY 


MKS.    L.    H.    SIGOURNEY. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ELEVENTH    EDITION,    REVISED    AND    CORRECTED. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PARRY  &  MCMILLAN, 

SUCCESSORS  TO  A.  HART,  LATE  CAREY  &  HART. 

G. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841,  by 

EDWARD  C.  BIDDLE, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


Printed   by   T.    K    &  P.    0     Collins. 


feiriyi 


mr 


THE  Publisher  of  "The  Select  Poems"  has  been  permitted 
to  make  use  of  the  folio-wing  extracts  of  a  communication  from 
the  late  lamented  MARIA  EDGEWORTII,  a  name  which,  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  claims  respect.  She  has  expressed  high 
approbation  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Sigourney  in  general,  and  from 
the  yolume  thus  designated,  selects  some  of  her  favourites. 

"  CONNECTICUT  RIVER,  page  16,  is  fine  poetry,  and  contains 
sentiments  worthy  of  '  Gray's  Country  Church-yard,'  without 
any  thing  like  close  imitation,  and  with  touches  and  thoughts 
peculiar  to  America.  From  the  G8th  line  to  the  close,  it  is 
strongly  marked.  Especially  the  lines, 

'  Lo !  here  they  rest,  who  every  danger  braved, 
Unmark'd,  untrophied,  'mid  the  soil  they  saved,' 

would  serve  as  a  fine  epitaph  or  inscription  for  any  burial-place 
of  New  Englanders. 

"  THE  LOST  DARLING,  page  150,  is  very  touching  and  natu 
ral  ;  and  the  '  Lines  to  the  Memory  of  a  Young  Lady,'  page 
155,  are  very  beautiful.  In  the  poem  entitled  'Benevolence,' 
page  181,  the  passage  beginning 

'Point  out  to  me  the  forms 
That  in  your  treasure-chambers  shall  enact 
Glad  mastership,— and  revel  where  you  toil'd 
Sleepless,  and  stern.' 

is  worthy  of  Shakspeare,  and  might  be  read  to  the  best  judges 
as  Shakspeare's  own. 

7 


8  MISS  EDGEWORTII  S   REMARKS. 

"  INDIAN  NAMES,  page  258,  is  very  poetical.  In  some  shape 
or  other,  the  Indians  ought  to  send  tokens  of  their  gratitude  to 
Mrs.  Sigourney.  They  surely  would,  could  all  she  has  written 
of  them,  in  eloquent  strains,  be  interpreted  to  their  feeling 
hearts. 

"  THE  MOHEGAN  CHURCH,  page  323,  is  particularly  admira 
ble,  both  as  poetry,  and  for  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  written. 
Being  recently  asked  for  my  autograph,  I  was  glad  to  copy  its 
nine  concluding  lines,  and  sign  my  name,  as  a  testimony  of  ad 
miration. 

"THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS,  page  329.  I  should  like  to  see  the 
picture  to  which  it  is  stated  that  these  lines  were  adapted.  It 
must  have  had  great  merit  as  a  painting,  to  have  called  forth 
such  sympathy  from  the  sister  art. 

"PARTING  OF  A  MOTHER  WITH  HER  CHILD,  page  332.  The 
child's  not  knowing  the  mother  is  a  new  circumstance  well 
touched,  and  truly  pathetic. 

"  Another  remark  has  occurred  to  me,  in  reading  these  poems, 
that  Mrs.  Sigourney  appears  to  have  the  power  of  writing  extem 
pore,  on  passing  subjects,  and  at  the  moment  they  are  called 
for.  But  few  persons  of  genius,  particularly  of  poetic  genius, 
have  ever  possessed  this  power.  She  must  have  great  command 
over  her  own  mind,  and  what  a  celebrated  physician  used  to 
call  voluntary  attention,  in  which  most  people  are  lamentably 
deficient,  so  that  they  can  never  write  any  thing  well,  when 
called  upon  for  it,  or  when  the  subject  is  suggested,  and  the 
effect  bespoken.  These  powers  are  twice  valuable,  that  can 
well  accomplish  their  purpose,  on  demand.  Certainly,  as  it 
regards  poetic  gifts,  those  who  give  promptly,  give  twice. 

"  How  few,  even  of  professed  and  eminent  poets  have  been 
able  to  produce  any  effusion  worthy  of  their  reputation,  or  even 
worth  reading,  on  what  the  French  call  des  sujets  de  command ; 
and  what  we  English  describe  as  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
ADDISON  could  not.  GRAY  could  not.  Many  more  might  be 
named,  who  could  not.  MRS.  SIGOURNEY'S  friends  will  doubt 
less  be  ready  to  bear  testimony  that  she  can." 


PREFACE. 


SOME  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  were  written  at  an 
early  age;  others,  amid  domestic  or  maternal  cares. 
The  greater  part  were  suggested  by  passing  occasions, 
and  partake  of  the  nature  of  extemporaneous  produc 
tions  ;  all  reveal  by  their  brevity,  the  short  periods  of 
time  allotted  to  their  construction. 

Like  wild  flowers  among  the  dells,  or  clefts  of  the 
rock,  they  sprang  up  wherever  the  path  of  life  chanced 
to  lead.  She  who  gathered,  and  now  offers  them  to  the 
beloved  clime  of  her  birth,  selects  for  their  motto  the 
truthful  words  of  an  eloquent  writer  : — 

"  Though  I  expect  from  them  neither  profit  nor  gene 
ral  fame,  I  consider  myself  amply  repaid  without  either. 
Poetry  has  been  to  me,  its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 
It  possesses  power  to  soothe  affliction,  to  multiply  and 
refine  enjoyment,  to  endear  solitude,  and  to  give  the 
habit  of  discovering  the  good  and  the  beautiful,  in  all 
that  meets  or  surrounds  us." 

HARTFORD,  Conn.,  Feb.  5th,  1845. 


LIST    OF   PLATES. 


SUNDAY  MORNING.        .......         FRONTISPIECE. 

VIGNETTE  TITLE      .     . 

TACK 
THE  BRAVE  BROTHER 49 

THE  FARMER 103 

THE  LOST  DARLING 150 

THE  VOLUNTEER 200 

THE  FAITHFUL  DOG    ...  .  .286 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Bird 13 

Sabbath  Morning 14 

Connecticut  lliver 16 

TheStars 21 

To  an  Absent  Daughter 25 

The  Cheerful  Giver 27 

Wild  Flowers  for  a  Sick  Friend-  29 

Death  of  an  Infant SO 

PerdidiDiem 32 

To  the  Cactus  Speciosissimus 31 

Anna  Boleyn 36 

Evening  at  Home 39 

The  Sunday  School 42 

The  Ark  and  Dove  44 

Song  of  the  Icelandic  Fisherman  47 

The  Brave  Brother 49 

The  Ancient  Family  Clock 52 

To  a  Shred  of  Linen- 57 

TheBubble 61 

The  Western  Emigrant 63 

On  the  Admission  of  Michigan 

into  the  Union 67 

Solitude 70 

Nature's  Royalty 72 

TheTimetoDie 75 

Forgotten  Flowers  to  a  Bride-  •  -  •  77 

The  Fathers  of  New  England 79 

The  Fall  of  the  Rose 82 

..  84 

•  •  86 


Thought  

School  of  Young  Ladies- 

Niagara  

The  Sick  Child 

Twilight 


91 

94 

Funeral  of  Mazeen 96 

The  Mourning  Daughter 98 


PAGl 
The  Happy  Farmer 103 

A  Cottage  Scene 105 

Rose  to  the  Dead 107 

Burial  of  Two  Young  Sisters,  the 

only  Children  of  their  Parents  110 

Autumn 112 

The  Last  Supper 115 

Washington's  Tomb 118 

Recollections  of  an  Aged  Pastor-  120 

Our  Aborigines 123 

The  Bitterness  of  Death 126 

The  Hopia  Tree 128 

A  Door  Opened  in  Heaven 131 

Passing  Away 133 

Sunset  on  the  Alleghany 135 

Contentment 138 

On  the  Death  of  a  Sister  while 

Absent  at  School 140 

The  Righteous  Dead 142 

Joy  in  Believing 144 

Indian  Girl's  Burial 146 

The  Lost  Darling 150 

Barzillai,  the  Gileadite 152 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Young  Lady  155 

The  War  Spirit 158 

Death  among  the  Trees 160 

Radiant  Clouds  at  Sunset 162 

Burmans  and  their  Missionary-  •  164 

The  Dead  Horseman 167 

The  Lonely  Church 171 

The  Heart  of  the  Bruce 173 

Winter 177 

Farewell  to  an  Ancient  Church-  •  179 

Benevolence 181 

Appeal  of  the  Blind 183 

11 


12 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Evening  by  the  Sea  Shore 185 

The  Mother 187 

The  Widow  of  Zarephath 189 

Divine  Goodness 194 

"Iwas  but  a  Babe 196 

A  Mother's  Counsels 198 

The  Volunteer 200 

Baptism  of  the  First  Born 203 

Blessed  are  the  Dead 205 

Bernardine  du  Born 207 

The  Knell 210 

The  Children  of  Henry  the  First-   212 

TheSeaBoy 215 

Meeting  of  the  Susquehanna  and 

Lackawanna 218 

Napoleon  at  Helena 220 

The  Deaf,  Dumb,  and  Blind  Girl 

at  a  Festival 225 

The  Tomb 230 

Poetry 232 

Baptism  of  an  Infant  at  its  Mo 
ther's  Funeral 234 

The  Friends  of  Man 236 

Marriage  of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  241 

To  a  Dying  Infant 243 

The  Dying  Philosopher 245 

Death  of  the  Emigrant 248 

Filial  Claims 251 

The  Angel's  Song 253 

The  Consumptive  Girl 255 

Indian  Names 258 

The  Martyr  of  Scio 261 

The  Corallnsect 264 


PAGE 

Mistakes 266 

Only  this  Once 268 

Pompeii 270 

Female  Education  for  Greece 273 

The  Bride 277 

The  Gift  of  Apollo 280 

Methuselah 282 

A  Father  to  his  Motherless  Chil 
dren  -   284 

The  Faithful  Dog 286 

Silent  Devotion 288 

The  Mother  of  Washington 290 

Christian  Settlements  in  Africa-  •  293 

The  Mourning  Lover 294 

Alice 297 

Dream  of  the  Dead 301 

The  New  Zealand  Missionary  •  •  •  304 
On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Adam  Clarke  307 

Marriage  Hymn = 309 

Death  of  a  Young  Wife 310 

The  Little  Hand 312 

Babe  Buried  at  Sea 315 

The  Benefactress 317 

The  Broken  Vase 320 

The  Mohegan  Church 323 

The  Thrush 326 

The  School-mistress 329 

Death  of  the  Widow's  Son 331 

Parting  of  a  Mother  with  her 

Child 302 

Alpine  Flowers 334 

Farewell   of   the    Soul    to    the 
Body 336 


-*    TITf^T^.^VS^ 

SELECT  POEMS. 


THE  BIRD. 

BEAUTIFUL  boy,  with  the  sunny  hair, 

What  wouldest  thou  do  with  that  birdling  rare  ? 

It  belongs  to  the  sky, — it  hath  wings,  you  know, 

Loosen  your  clasping,  and  let  him  go  : — 

But  the  child  replied  with  a  laugh  of  glee, 

"  It  can  learn  to  play, — it  must  stay  with  me  !" 

Then  out  spoke  the  sister  with  lute-like  tone, 

"  In  spring,  when  the  ice  from  the  brooks  had  gone, 

The  new-born  leaves  in  the  grove  were  stirred 

By  the  sweetest  music  I  every  heard. 

Brother  mine, — 'twas  the  song  of  the  free, — 

Will  the  song  of  thy  captive  as  tuneful  be  ?" 

Gentle  Mother,  whose  yearning  breast 

Exults  o'er  the  birds  of  thine  own  fair  nest, 

Methinks  I  see,  through  thy  smile  of  care, 

The  quickened  soul  of  a  voiceless  prayer. 

G-ive  it  breath, — give  it  flight,  to  the  Gracious  Ear,-  - 

A  mother's  joy  hath  its  root  in  fear. 

Her  fondest  love  hath  a  tinge  of  grief, — 
Her  proudest  hopes  are  an  aspen  leaf; — 


14  SABBATH    MORNING. 

Turn  to  the  Ark  that  outrides  the  gale, 
Seek  for  the  strength  that  can  never  fail, 
That  thy  birds  may  on  starry  pinions  soar 
Among  the  trees  that  shall  fade  no  more. 


SABBATH 


How  beautiful  the  Sunday  morn,  amid 

The  quietude  of  nature.     Spreading  t:  . 

And  the  simplicity  of  rural  life 

Best  harmonize  with  its  divine  intent  ; 

And  more  than  pompous  cities,  or  the  throngs 

That  flow  unceasing  thro'  their  crowded  streets, 

"Welcome  its  silent  spirit.     Here,  and  there, 

A  rustic  household,  toward  the  village  church 

Wind  through  green  lanes,  where  still  the  dewy  grass 

Reserves  its  diamonds  for  them.     Happy  sire, 

And  peaceful  grandsire,  with  his  hoary  hair, 

And  joyous  children,  their  fresh,  ruddy  brows 

Compos'd  to  serious  thought,  and  even  the  babe 

In  its  young  innocence,  a  wondering  guest, 

Wend  forth,  in  blessed  company,  to  pay 

Their  vows  to  Him,  who  heeds  the  pure  in  heart. 

Heaven  whispereth  earth.     And  lo  !  an  answering  sigh 
Speeds  from  the  winds,  as  they  unfold  their  wings 
Impalpable,  and  touch  the  dimpling  streams, 


SABBATH   MOBXIXQ.  15 

And  wave  the  plants,  while  from  the  leafy  groves 
Steals  deeper  melody.     3Iethinks,  the  sea 
MurmuretL  in  tone  subdued,  as  if  its  wares 
Paus'd  in  their  tyrant  play,  or  cowering  heard 
That  warning  voice,  which  to  the  banish'd  man 
In  rocky  Patmos,  taught  unuttered  things, 
And  in  the  spirit-trance  of  scenes  snblime, 
Bore  all  of  self  away. 

Hail,  hallow*  d  morn ! 

That  binds  a  yoke  on  Vice.     Drooping  her  head, 
She  by  snch  quaint  hypocrisy,  doth  show 
How  excellent  is  Virtue.     Eve  may  light 
Her  orgies  up  again,  but  at  this'  hour, 
She  trembleth,  and  is  stflL     Humility 
From  the  cleft  rock  where  she  hath  hid,  doth  mark 
The  girded  majesty  of  God  pass  by, 
And  kneeling,  wins  a  blessing.     Grief  foregoes 
Her  bitterness,  and  round  the  tear-wet  urn 
Twines  simple  flowers,  still  musing  on  Hi*  words 
Who  on  this  day  despoil'd  the  conquering  grave, 
"  Thy  dead  shall  rise  again." 

Bat  best,  firm  Faith 

Enjoys  the  Sabbath.     She  doth  lift  her  brow 
And  talk  with  angels,  till  the  listening  soul 
That  by  the  thraldom  of  the  week  was  boVd 
To  weariness,  doth  like  the  enfranchised  slave 
Leap  up,  to  put  its  glorious  garments  on. 
2 


16 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 


FAIR  River !  not  unknown  to  classic  song ; — 
Which  still  in  varying  beauty  rolPst  along, 
Where  first  thy  infant  fount  is  faintly  seen, 
A  line  of  silver  'mid  a  fringe  of  green ; 
Or  where,  near  towering  rocks  thy  bolder  tide, 
To  win  the  giant-guarded  pass,  doth  glide ; 
Or  where  in  azure  mantle  pure  and  free 
Thou  giv'st  thy  cool  hand  to  the  waiting  sea. 

Though  broader  streams  our  sister  realms  may  boast, 
Herculean  cities,  and  a  prouder  coast, 
Yet  from  the  bound  where  hoarse  St.  Lawrence  roars, 
To  where  La  Plata  rocks  resounding  shores, 
From  where  the  arms  of  slimy  Nilus  shine, 
To  the  blue  waters  of  the  rushing  Rhine, 
Or  where  Ilissus  glows  like  diamond  spark, 
Or  sacred  Ganges  whelms  her  votaries  dark, 
No  brighter  skies  the  eye  of  day  may  see, 
Nor  soil  more  verdant,  nor  a  race  more  free. 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  17 

Sec !  where  amid  their  cultured  vales  they  stand, 
The  generous  offspring  of  a  simple  land  ; 
Too  rough  for  flattery,  and  all  fear  above, 
King,  priest,  and  prophet  'mid  the  homes  they  love — 
On  equal  laws  their  anchored  hopes  are  stayed, 
By  all  interpreted,  and  all  obeyed ; 
Alike  the  despot  and  the  slave  they  hate, 
And  rise,  firm  columns  of  a  happy  state. 
To  them  content  is  bliss — and  labour  health, 
And  knowledge  power,  and  pure  religion,  wealth. 

The  farmer,  here,  with  honest  pleasure  sees 
His  orchards  blushing  to  the  fervid  breeze, 
His  bleating  flocks,  the  shearer's  care  that  need, 
His  waving  woods,  the  wintry  hearth  that  feed, 
His  hardy  steers  that  break  the  yielding  soil, 
His  patient  sons,  who  aid  their  father's  toil, 
The  ripening  fields,  for  joyous  harvest  drest, 
And  the  white  spire,  that  points  a  world  of  rest. 

His  thrifty  mate,  solicitous  to  bear 
An  equal  burden  in  the  yoke  of  care, 
With  vigorous  arm  the  flying  shuttle  heaves, 
Or  from  the  press  the  golden  cheese  receives  : 
Her  pastime  when  the  daily  task  is  o'er, 
With  apron  clean,  to  seek  her  neighbour's  door. 
Partake  the  friendly  feast,  with  social  glow, 
Exchange  the  news,  and  make  the  stocking  grow  • 


18  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Then  hale  and  cheerful  to  her  home  repair, 
When  Sol's  slant  ray  renews  her  evening  care, 
Press  the  full  udder  for  her  children's  meal, 
Rock  the  tir'd  babe — or  wake  the  tuneful  wheel. 

See,  toward  yon  dome  where  village  science  dwells, 
When  the  church-clock  its  warning  summons  swells, 
What  tiny  feet  the  well-known  path  explore, 
And  gaily  gather  from  each  rustic  door. 
The  new-weaned  child  with  murmuring  tone  proceeds, 
Whom  her  scarce  taller  baby-brother  leads, 
Transferred  as  burdens,  that  the  housewife's  care 
May  tend  the  dairy,  or  the  fleece  prepare. 
Light-hearted  group! — who  carol  wild  and  high, 
The  daisy  cull,  or  chase  the  butterfly, 
Or  by  some  traveller's  wheel  aroused  from  play, 
The  stiff*  salute,  with  deep  demureness  pay, 
Bare  the  curled  brow,  and  stretch  the  sunburnt  hand, 
The  home-taught  homage  of  an  artless  land. 
The  stranger  marks,  amid  their  joyous  line, 
The  little  baskets  whence  they  hope  to  dine. 
And  larger  books,  as  if  their  dexterous  art, 
Dealt  most  nutrition  to  the  noblest  part : — 
Long  may  it  be,  ere  luxury  teach  the  shame 
To  starve  tne  mind,  and  bloat  the  unwieldy  frame. 

Scorn  not  this  lowly  race,  ye  sons  of  pride, 
Their  joys  disparage,  nor  their  hopes  deride ; 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  19 

From  germs  like  these  have  mighty  statesmen  sprung, 
Of  prudent  counsel,  and  persuasive  tongue ; 
Unblenching  souls,  who  ruled  the  willing  throng, 
Their  well-braced  nerves  by  early  labour  strong ; 
Inventive  minds,  a  nation's  wealth  that  wrought, 
And  white-haired  sages,  sold  to  studious  thought ; 
Chiefs,  whose  bold  step  the  field  of  battle  trod ; 
And  holy  men,  who  fed  the  flock  of  God. 

Here,  'mid  the  graves  by  time  so  sacred  made, 
The  poor,  lost  Indian  slumbers  in  the  shade ; — 
He,  whose  canoe  with  arrowy  swiftness  clave, 
In  ancient  days  yon  pure,  cerulean  wave ; 
Son  of  that  Spirit,  whom  in  storms  he  traced, 
Through  darkness  followed — and  in  death  embraced, 
He  sleeps  an  outlaw,  'mid  his  forfeit  land, 
And  grasps  the  arrow  in  his  mouldered  hand. 

Here,  too,  our  patriot  sires  with  honour  rest. 
In  Freedom's  cause  who  bared  the  valiant  breast ; — • 
Sprang  from  their  half-drawn  furrow,  as  the  cry 
Of  threatened  Liberty  went  thrilling  by, 
Looked  to  their  God — and  reared,  in  bulwark  round, 
Breasts  free  from  guile,  and  hands  with  toil  embrowned, 
And  bade  a  monarch's  thousand  banners  yield — 
Firm  at  the  plough,  and  glorious  in  the  field : 
Lo !  here  they  rest  who  every  danger  braved, 
Unmarked,  untrophied,  'mid  the  soil  they  saved. 
2* 


20  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Round  scenes  like  these  doth  warm  remembrance  glide, 

Where  emigration  rolls  its  ceaseless  tide 

On  western  wilds,  which  thronging  hordes  explore, 

Or  ruder  Erie's  serpent-haunted  shore, 

Or  far  Huron,  by  unshorn  forests  crowned, 

Or  red  Missouri's  unfrequented  bound, 

The  exiled  man,  when  midnight  shades  invade, 

Couched  in  his  hut,  or  camping  on  the  glade, 

Starts  from  his  dream,  to  catch,  in  echoes  clear, 

The  boatman's  song  that  charmed  his  boyish  ear ; 

While  the  sad  mother,  'mid  her  children's  mirth 

Paints  with  fond  tears  a  parent's  distant  hearth, 

Or  cheats  her  rustic  babes  with  tender  tales 

Of  thee,  blest  River !  and  thy  velvet  vales, 

Her  native  cot,  where  luscious  berries  swell, 

The  village  school,  and  Sabbath's  tuneful  bell, 

And  smiles  to  see  the  infant  soul  expand 

With  proud  devotion  for  that  father-land. 


21 


THE  STARS. 


MAKE  friendship  with  the  stars. 

Go  forth  at  night, 

And  talk  with  Aldebaran,  where  he  flames 
In  the  cold  forehead  of  the  wintry  sky. 
Turn  to  the  sister  Pleiades,  and  ask 
If  there  be  death  in  Heaven  ?     A  blight  to  fall 
Upon  the  brightness  of  unfrosted  hair? 
A  severing  of  fond  hearts  ?     A  place  of  graves  ? 
Our  sympathies  are  with  you,  stricken  stars, 
Clustering  so  closely  round  the  lost  one's  place. 
Too  well  we  know  the  hopeless  toil  to  hide 
The  chasm  in  love's  fond  circle.     The  lone  seat 
Where  the  meek  grandsire,  with  his  silver  locks, 
Reclined  so  happily  j  the  fireside  chair 
Whence  the  fond  mother  fled ;  the  cradle  turn'd 
Against  the  wall,  and  empty ;  well  we  know 
The  untold  anguish,  when  some  dear  one  falls. 
How  oft  the  life-blood  trickling  from  our  hearts. 
Reveals  a  kindred  spirit  torn  away ! 
Tears  are  our  birth-right,  gentle  sister  train, 


22 


THE  STARS. 


And  more  we  love  you,  if  like  us  ye  mourn. 

— Ho!  bold  Orion,  with  thy  lion-shield; 

What  tidings  from  the  chase  ?  what  monster  slain  ? 

Runn'st  thou  a  tilt  with  Taurus  ?  or  dost  rear 

Thy  weapon  for  more  stately  tournament  ? 

'T\vere  better,  sure,  to  be  a  son  of  peace 

Among  those  quiet  stars,  than  raise  the  rout 

Of  rebel  tumult,  and  of  wild  affray, 

Or  feel  ambition  with  its  scorpion  sting 

Transfix  thy  heel,  and  like  Napoleon  fall. 

Fair  queen,  Cassiopeia!  is  thy  court 

Well  peopled  with  chivalric  hearts,  that  pay 

Due  homage  to  thy  beauty  ?     Thy  levee, 

Is  it  still  throng'd  as  in  thy  palmy  youth  ? 

Is  there  no  change  of  dynasty?     No  dread 

Of  revolution  'mid  the  titled  peers 

That  age  en  age  have  served  thee  ?     Teach  us  how 

To  make  our  sway  perennial,  in  the  hearts 

Of  those  who  love  us,  so  that  when  our  bloom 

And  spring-tide  wither,  they  in  phalanx  firm  : 

May  gird  us  round,  and  make  life's  evening  bright. 

— But  thou,  O  Sentinel,  with  sleepless  eye, 

Guarding  the  northern  battlement  of  heaven, 

For  whom  the  seven  pure  spirits  nightly  burn 

Their  torches,  marking  out,  with  glittering  spire, 

Both  hours  and  seasons  on  thy  dial-plate, 

How  turns  the  storm-tost  manner  to  thee! 

The  poor  lost  Indian,  having  nothing  left 


THE  STARS. 


23 


In  tis  own  ancient  realm,  not  even  the  bones 

Of  his  dead  fathers,  lifts  his  brow  to  thee, 

And  glads  his  broken  spirit  with  thy  beam. 

The  weary  caravan,  with  chiming  bells, 

Making  strange  music  'mid  the  desert  sands, 

Guides,  by  thy  pillar'd  fires,  its  nightly  march. 

Reprov'st  thou  not  our  faith  so  oft  untrue 

To  its  Great  Pole  Star,  when  some  surging  wave 

Foams  o'er  our  feet,  or  thorns  beset  our  way  ? 

— Speak  out  the  wisdom  of  thy  hoary  years, 

Arcturus !  Patriarch !  Mentor  of  the  train, 

That  gather  radiance  from  thy  golden  urn. 

We  are  of  yesterday,  short-sighted  sons 

Of  this  dim  orb,  and  all  our  proudest  lore 

Is  but  the  alphabet  of  ignorance : 

Yet  ere  we  trace  its  little  round,  we  die. 

Give  us  thy  counsel,  ere  we  pass  away. 

— Lyra,  sweet  Lyra,  sweeping  on  with  song, 

While  glorious  Summer  decks  the  listening  flowers, 

Teach  us  thy  melodies;  for  sinful  cares 

Make  discord  in  our  hearts.     Hast  thou  the  ear 

Of  the  fair  planets  that  encircle  thee, 

As  children  round  the  hearth-stone  ?    Canst  thou  quell 

Their  woes  with  music  ?  or  their  infant  eyes 

Lull  to  soft  sleep?     Do  thy  young  daughters  join 

Thy  evening  song?     Or  does  thine  Orphean  art 

Touch  the  warn*  pulses  of  the  neighbor  stars 

And  constellations,  till  they  higher  lift 


&4  THE  STARS. 

The  pilgrim-staff  to  run  their  glorious  way  ? 
— Hail,  mighty  Sirius !  monarch  of  the  suns, 
Whose  golden  sceptre  suhject  worlds  obey; 
May  we,  in  this  poor  planet  speak  to  thee  ? 
Thou  highest  dweller,  'mid  the  highest  heaven, 
Say,  art  thou  nearer  to  His  Throne,  whose  nod 
Doth  govern  all  things? 

Hearest  thou  the  strong  wing 
Of  the  Archangel,  as  it  broadly  sweeps 
The  empyrean,  to  the  farthest  orb, 

Bearing  Heaven's  watch-word?  Knowest  thou  what  report 
The  red-hair'd  Comet,  on  his  car  of  flame, 
Brings  the  recording  seraph  ?     Hast  thou  heard 
One  whisper  through  the  open  gate  of  Heaven 
When  the  pale  stars  shall  fall,  and  yon  blue  vault 
Be  as  a  shrivell'd  scroll? 

Thou  answer'st  not! 

Why  question  we  with  thee,  Eternal  Fire  ? 
We,  frail,  and  blind,  to  whom  our  own  dark  moon, 
With  its  few  phases,  is  a  mystery! 
Back  to  the  dust,  most  arrogant!     Be  still! 
Deep  silence  is  thy  wisdom!     Ask  no  more! 
But  let  thy  life  be  one  long  sigh  of  prayer, 
One  hymn  of  praise,  till  from  the  broken  clay, 
At  its  last  gasp,  the  unquench'd  spirit  rise, 
And,  unforgotten,  'mid  unnumber'd  worlds, 
Ascend  to  Him,  from  whom  its  essence  came. 


25 


TO  AN  ABSENT  DAUGHTER. 


WHERE  art  thou,  bird  of  song? 

Brightest  one  and  dearest  ? 
Other  groves  among, 

Other  nests  thou  cheerest ; 
Sweet  thy  warbling  skill 

To  each  ear  that  heard  thee, 
But  'twas  sweetest  still 

To  the  heart  that  rear'd  thee. 

Lamb,  where  dost  thou  rest? 

On  stranger-bosoms  lying? 
Flowers,  thy  path  that  drest, 

All  uncropp'd  are  dying; 
Streams  where  thou  didst  roam 

Murmur  on  without  thee, 
Lov'st  thou  still  thy  home  ? 

Can  thy  mother  doubt  thee  ? 

Seek  thy  Saviour's  flock, 
To  his  blest  fold  going, 


26  TO  AN  ABSENT  DAUGHTER. 

Seek  that  smitten  rock 

Whence  our  peace  is  flowing; 

Still  should  Love  rejoice, 
Whatsoe'er  betide  thee, 

If  that  Shepherd's  voice 
Evermore  might  guide  thee. 


27 


THE  CHEERFUL  GIVER. 


"  God  loveth  a  cheerful  giver." 


"  WHAT  shall  I  render  Thee,  Father  Supreme, 
For  thy  rich  gifts,  and  this  the  best  of  all  ?" 
Said  a  young  mother,  as  she  fondly  watch'd 
Her  sleeping  babe. 

There  was  an  answering  voice, 
That  night,  in  dreams. 

"  Thou  hast  a  tender  flower 
Wrapt  in  thy  breast,  and  fed  with  dews  of  love. 
Give  me  that  flower.    Such  flowers  there  are  in  heaven." 

— But  there  was  silence.     Yea,  a  hush  so  deep, 
Breathless  and  terror-stricken,  that  the  lip 
Blanch'd  in  its  trance. 

"  Thou  hast  a  little  harp, 
How  sweetly  would  it  swell  the  angel's  song. 
Lend  me  that  harp." 

Then  burst  a  shuddering  sob, 
As  if  the  bosom  by  some  hidden  sword 
Was  cleft  in  twain 


2S  THE  CIIEtiflFUL  OIVEK. 

Morn  came.     A  blight  liad  found 
The  crimson  velvet  of  the  unfolding  bud, 
The  harp-strings  rang  a  thrilling  strain  and  broke, 
And  that  young  mother  lay  upon  the  earth 
In  childless  agony. 

Again  the  voice 
That  stirr'd  her  vision. 

"He,  who  askea  of  tnee, 
Loveth  a  cheerful  giver." 

So  she  rais'd 

Her  gushing  eye,  and  ere  the  tear-drop  dried 
Upon  its  fringes,  smiled. 

Doubt  not  that  smile, 
Like  Abraham's  faith,  was  counted  righteousness. 


29 


WILD  FLOWERS  GATHERED  FOR  A 
SICK  FRIEND. 


RISE  from  the  dells  were  ye  first  were  born, 
From  the  tangled  beds  of  the  weed  and  thorn, 
Rise,  for  the  dews  of  the  morn  are  bright, 
And  haste  away,  with  your  eyes  of  light. 

• — Should  the  green-house  patricians,  with  withering  frown 
On  your  simple  vestments  look  haughtily  down, 
Shrink  not,  for  His  finger  your  heads  hath  bow'd 
Who  heeds  the  lowly,  and  humbles  the  proud. 

— The  tardy  spring,  and  the  chilling  sky, 

Hath  meted  your  robes  with  a  miser's  eye, 

And  check'd  the  blush  of  your  blossoms  free ; 

With  a  gentler  friend  your  home  shall  be ; 

To  a  kinder  ear  you  may  tell  your  tale 

Of  the  zephyr's  kiss,  and  the  scented  vale : 

Ye  are  charm'd !  ye  are  charm'd !  and  your  fragrant  sigh 

Is  health  to  the  bosom  on  which  ye  die. 


30 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT.* 


DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polish'd  brow, 
And  dash'd  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded. 

Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
For  ever. 

There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound, 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence. 

*  This  little  poem  has  been  inserted  by  mistake,  in  one  of  the 
American  editions  of  the  late  Mrs.  Hemans.  Though  this  is  ac 
counted  by  the  real  author,  as  an  honor,  it  is  still  proper  to  state, 
that  it  was  originally  composed  at  Hartford,  in  the  winter  of  1824 
and  comprised  in  a  volume  of  poems,  published  in  Boston,  by  S.  G. 
Goodrich,  Esq.,  hi  1827.  Should  other  testimony  be  necessary,  it 
may  be  mentioned  that  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hemans,  to  a  friend  in 
Miis  country,  pointing  out  some  poems  in  that  volume  which  pleased 
cr,  designated,  among  others,  this  "  Death  of  an  Infant." 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT.  3] 

But  there  beam'd  a  smile, 
So  fix'd,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dar'd  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  Heaven. 


3* 


32 


«  PERDIDI  DIEM." 


The  Emperor  Titus,  at  the  close  of  a  day  in  which  he  had  neither 
gained  knowledge  nor  conferred  benefit,  was  accustomed  to  exclaim, 
"  Perdidi  diem,"  "I  have  lost  a  day" 


WHY  art  thou  sad,  thou  of  the  sceptred  hand  ? 

The  rob'd  in  purple,  and  the  high  in  state  ? 
Rome  pours  her  myriads  forth,  a  vassal  band, 

And  foreign  powers  are  crouching  at  thy  gate ; 
Yet  dost  thou  deeply  sigh,  as  if  oppressed  by  fate. 

"  Perdidi  diem  !"— Pour  the  empire's  treasure, 
Uncounted  gold,  and  gems  of  rainbow  dye ; 

Unlock  the  fountains  of  a  monarch's  pleasure 
To  lure  the  lost  one  back.  I  heard  a  sigh, — 

One  hour  of  parted  time,  a  world  is  poor  to  buy. 

"  Perdidi  diem."— 'Tis  a  mournful  story, 
Thus  in  the  ear  of  pensive  eve  to  tell, 
Of  morning's  firm  resolves,  the  vanish'd  glory, 


33 

Hope's  honey  left  within  the  withering  bell, 
And  plants  of  mercy  dead,  that  might  have  bloom'd  so  well. 

I  fail,  self-communing  Emperor,  nobly  wise! 

There  are,  who  thoughtless  haste  to  life's  last  goal , 
There  are,  who  time's  long  squandered  wealth  despise  •, 

Perdidl  vitam  marks  their  finished  scroll, 
When  Death's  dark  angel  comes  to  claim  the  startled 
soul. 


34 


TO  THE  CACTUS  SPECIOSISSIMUS. 


W  jo  hung  thy  beauty  on  such  rugged  stalk, 
Thou  glorious  flower? 

Who  pour'd  the  richest  hues, 
In  varying  radiance,  o'er  thine  ample  brow, 
And  lite  a  mesh  those  tissued  stamens  laid 
Upon  thy  crimson  lip  ? — 

Thou  glorious  flower ! 
Methinks  it  were  no  sin  to  worship  thee, 
Such  passport  hast  thou  from  thy  Maker's  hand, 
To  thrill  the  soul.     Lone  on  thy  leafless  stem, 
Thou  bidd'st  the  queenly  rose  with  all  her  buds 
Do  homage,  and  the  green-house  peerage  bow 
Their  rainbow  coronets. 

Hast  thou  no  thought  ? 
No  intellectual  life  ?  thou  who  can'st  wake 
Man's  heart  to  such  communings  ?  no  sweet  word 
With  which  to  answer  him  ?     'Twould  almost  seem 
That  so  much  beauty  needs  must  have  a  soul, 
And  that  such  form,  as  tints  the  gazer's  dream, 
Held  higher  spirit  than  the  common  clod 
On  which  we  tread. 


TO  THE  CACTUS  SPECIOSISSIMUS.  35 

Yet  while  we  muse,  a  blight 
Steals  o'er  thee,  and  thy  shrinking  bosom  shows 
The  mournful  symptoms  of  a  wan  disease. 
I  will  not  stay  to  see  thy  beauties  fade. 
— Still  must  I  bear  away  within  my  heart 
Thy  lesson  of  our  own  mortality, 
The  fearful  withering  of  each  blossom'd  bough 
On  which  we  lean,  of  every  bud  we  fain 
Would  hide  within  our  bosoms  from  the  touch 
Of  the  destroyer. 

So  instruct  us,  Lord  ! 

Thou  Father  of  the  sunbeam  and  the  soul, 
Even  by  the  simple  sermon  of  a  flower, 
To  cling  to  Thee. 


36 


ANNA  BOLEYN 


On  seeing  the  axe  with  which  Anna  Boleyn  was  beheaded,  still 
preserved  in  the  Tower  of  London. 


STERN  minister  of  fate  severe, 
Who,  drunk  with  beauty's  blood. 
Defying  time,  dost  linger  here, 
And  frown  with  ruffian  visage  drear, 
Like  beacon  on  destruction's  flood, — 
Say! — when  ambition's  giddy  dream 
First  lured  thy  victim's  heart  aside, 
Why,  like  a  serpent,  didst  thou  hide, 
'Mid  clustering  flowers,  and  robes  of  pride, 

Thy  warning  gleam  ? 

Hadst  thou  but  once  arisen  in  vision  dread, 
From  glory's  fearful  cliff  her  startled  step  had  fled. 

Ah !  little  she  reck'd,  when  St.  Edward's  crown 
So  heavily  press'd  her  tresses  fair, 
That,  with  sleepless  wrath,  its  thorns  of  care 

Would  rankle  within  her  couch  of  down  ! 


ANNA  BOLEYN.  37 

To  the  tyrant's  bower, 
In  her  beauty's  power, 
She  came  as  a  lamb  to  the  lion's  lair, 
As  the  light  bird  cleaves  the  fields  of  air, 
And  carols  blithe  and  sweet,  while  Treachery  weaves  i* 
snare. 

Think ! — what  were  her  pangs  as  she  traced  her  fate 
On  that  changeful  monarch's  brow  of  hate  ? 
What  were  the  thoughts  which,  at  midnight  hour, 
Throng'd  o'er  her  soul,  in  yon  dungeon  tower  ? 

Regret,  with  pencil  keen, 

Retouch'd  the  deep'ning  scene  : 
Gay  France,  which  bade  with  sunny  skies 
Her  careless  childhood's  pleasures  rise  ; 
Earl  Percy's  love,  his  youthful  grace. 
Her  gallant  brother's  fond  embrace ; 
Her  stately  father's  feudal  halls, 
Where  proud  heraldic  annals  deck'd  the  ancient  walls 

Wrapt  in  the  scaffold's  gloom, 
Brief  tenant  of  that  living  tomb 
She  stands ! — the  life-blood  chills  her  heart, 
And  her  tender  glance  from  earth  does  part; 
But  her  infant  daughter's  image  fail- 
In  the  smile  of  innocence  is  there, 
It  clings  to  her  soul  'mid  its  last  despair ; 


38  ANNA  BOLEYN. 

And  the  desolate  queen  is  doom'd  to  know 
How  far  a  mother's  grief  transcends  a  martyr's  woe. 

Say  !  did  prophetic  light 
Illume  her  darkening  sight, 
Painting  the  future  island- queen, 
Like  the  fabled  bird,  all  hearts  surprising, 
Bright  from  blood-stained  ashes  rising, 
Wise,  energetic,  bold,  serene  ? 
Ah  no !  the  scroll  of  time 
Is  sealed ; — and  hope  sublime 

Rests,  but  on  those  far  heights,  which  mortals  may  not 
climb. 

The  dying  prayer,  with  trembling  fervour,  speeds 
For  that  false  monarch  by  whose  will  she  bleeds; 
For  him,  who,  listening  on  that  fatal  morn, 
Hears  her  death  signal  o'er  the  distant  lawn 

From  the  deep  cannon  speaking, 
Then  springs  to  mirth  and  winds  his  bugle 

And  riots  while  her  blood  is  reeking : — 
For  him  she  prays,  in  seraph  tone, 

«  oh ! — be  his  sins  forgiven ! 
Who  raised  me  to  an  earthly  throne, 
And  sends  me  now,  from  prison  lone, 

To  be  a  saint  in  heaven." 


EVENING  AT  HOME. 


WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  YOUTH. 


LOUD  roars  the  hoarse  storm  from  the  angry  nortn5 
As  if  the  wintry  spirit,  loth  to  leave 
His  wonted  haunts,  came  rudely  rushing  back, 
Fast  by  the  steps  of  the  defenceless  Spring, 
'To  hurl  his  frost-spear  at  her  shrinking  flowers. 

Yet  while  the  tempest  o'er  the  charms  of  May 
Sweeps  dominant,  and  with  discordant  tone 
The  wild  blast  rules  without,  peace  smiles  within ; 
The  fire  burns  cheerful,  and  the  taper  clear 
Alternate  aids  the  needle,  or  illumes 
The  page  sublime,  inciting  the  rapt  soul 
To  soar  above  the  warring  elements. 
My  gentle  kitten  at  my  footstool  sings 
Her  song  monotonous,  and,  full  of  joy, 
Close  by  my  side  my  tender  mother  sits, 
Industriously  bent — her  brow  still  bright 
With  beams  of  lingering  youth,  while  he,  the  sire, 
The  faithful  guide,  indulgently  doth  smile 
4 


40  EVENING  AT  HOME. 

At  our  discourse,  or  wake  the  tuneful  hymn 
Which  best  he  loves. 

Fountain  of  life  and  light ! — 
Father  Supreme  !  from  whom  our  joys  descend, 
As  streams  flow  from  their  source,  and  unto  whom 
All  good  on  earth  shall  finally  return 
As  to  a  natural  centre,  praise  is  due 
To  Thee  from  all  thy  works ;  nor  least  from  me, 
Though,  in  thy  scale  of  being,  light  and  low. 

From  thee  is  shed  whate'er  of  joy  or  peace 
Doth  sparkle  in  my  cup — health,  hope  and  bliss, 
And  pure  parental  love,  beneath  whose  smile 
My  grateful  heart  forgets  the  lonely  void 
Of  brother,  and  of  sister,  oft  bewail'd. 

Therefore,  to  Thee  be  all  the  honor  given, 
Whether  young  morning,  with  her  vestal  lamp, 
Warn  from  my  couch;  or  sober  twilight  gray 
Lead  on  the  willing  night;  or  summer  sky 
Spread  its  smooth  azure;  or  contending  storms 
Muster  their  wrath ;  or  whether  in  the  shade 
Of  much  loved  solitude,  deep  wove  and  close, 
I  rest;  or  gaily  share  the  social  scene ; 
Or  wander  wide  to  twine  with  stranger-hearts 
New  sympathies ;  or  wheresoever  else 
rky  hand  may  place  me,  let  my  steadfast  eye 


EVENING  AT  HOME.  41 

Behold  Thee,  and  my  soul  attune  thy  praise. 

To  Thee  alone,  in  humble  trust  I  come 

For  strength  and  wisdom.     Leaning  on  thine  arm 

Fain  would  I  pass  this  intermediate  state, 

This  vale  of  discipline ;  and  when  its  mists 

Shall  fleet  away,  I  trust  thou  wilt  not  leave 

My  soul  in  darkness,  for  thy  word  is  truth ; 

Nor  are  thy  thoughts  like  the  vain  thoughts  of  man, 

Nor  thy  ways  like  his  ways. 

Therefore  I  rest 
[n  hope,  and  sing  thy  praise,  Father  Supreme ! 


42 


THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL. 


GROUP  after  group  are  gathering,  such  as  prest 

Once  to  their  Saviour's  arms,  and  gently  laid 
Their  cherub  heads  upon  his  shielding  breast, 

Though  sterner  souls  the  fond  approach  forbade 
Group  after  group  glide  on  with  noiseless  tread 

And  round  Jehovah's  sacred  altar  meet, 
Where  holy  thoughts  in  infant  hearts  are  bred, 

And  holy  words  their  ruby  lips  repeat, 
Oft  with  a  chasten'd  glance,  in  modulation  sweet. 

Yet  some  there  are,  upon  whose  childish  brows 

Wan  poverty  hath  done  the  work  of  care ; 
Look  up,  ye  sad  ones! — 'tis  your  Father's  house, 

Beneath  whose  consecrated  dome  you  are; 
More  gorgeous  robes  ye  see,  and  trappings  rare, 

And  watch  the  gaudier  forms  that  gaily  rove, 
And  deem  perchance,  mistaken  as  you  are, 

The  u  coat  of  many  colours"  proves  His  love, 
Whose  sign  is  in  the  heart  and  whose  reward  above. 


THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL.  43 

And  ye,  blest  laborers  in  this  humble  sphere, 

To  deeds  of  saint-like  charity  inclined, 
Who  from  your  cells  of  meditation  dear 

Come  forth  to  guide  the  weak,  untutorM  mind — 
Yet  ask  no  payment,  save  one  smile  refined 

Of  grateful  love,  one  tear  of  contrite  pain, 
Meekly  ye  forfeit  to  your  mission  kind 

The  rest  of  earthly  Sabbaths.     Be  your  gain 
A  Sabbath  without  end, '  nid  yon  celestial  plain 


THE  ARK  AND  DOVE. 


"TELL  me  a  story — please,"  my  little  girl 
Lisped  from  her  cradle.     So  I  bent  me  down 
And  told  her  how  it  rained,  and  rained,  and  rained, 
Till  all  the  flowers  were  covered,  and  the  trees 
Hid  their  tall  heads,  and  where  the  houses  stood, 
And  people  dwelt,  a  fearful  deluge  rolled ; 
Because  the  world  was  wicked,  and  refused 
To  heed  the  words  of  God.     But  one  good  man, 
Who  long  had  warned  the  wicked  to  repent 
Obey  and  live,  taught  by  the  voice  of  Heaven, 
Had  built  an  Ark ;  and  thither,  with  his  wife, 
And  children,  turned  for  safety.     Two  and  two, 
Of  beasts  and  birds,  and  creeping  things  he  took, 
With  food  for  all ;  and  when  the  tempest  roared, 
And  the  great  fountains  of  the  sky  poured  out 
A  ceaseless  flood,  till  all  beside  were  drowned, 
They  in  their  quiet  vessel  dwelt  secure. 
And  so  the  mighty  waters  bare  them  up, 
And  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep  they  sailed 
For  many  days.     But  then  a  gentle  dove 


THE  ARK  AND  DOVE. 

'Scaped  from  the  casement  of  the  ark,  and  spread 

Her  lonely  pinion  o'er  that  boundless  wave. 

All,  all  was  desolation.     Chirping  nest, 

Nor  face  of  man,  nor  living  thing  she  saw, 

For  all  the  people  of  the  earth  were  drowned, 

Because  of  disobedience.     Nought  she  spied 

Save  wide,  dark  waters,  and  a  frowning  sky, 

Nor  found  her  weary  foot  a  place  of  rest. 

So,  with  a  leaf  of  olive  in  her  mouth, 

Sole  fruit  of  her  drear  voyage,  which,  perchance 

Upon  some  wrecking  billow  floated  by, 

With  drooping  wing  the  peaceful  Ark  she  sought. 

The  righteous  man  that  wandering  dove  received. 

And  to  her  mate  restored,  who,  with  sad  moans, 

Had  wondered  at  her  absence. 

Then  I  looked 

Upon  the  child,  to  see  if  her  young  thought 
Wearied  with  following  mine.     But  her  blue  eye 
Was  a  glad  listener,  and  the  eager  breath 
Of  pleased  attention  curled  her  parted  lip 
And  so  I  told  her  how  the  waters  dried, 
And  the  green  branches  waved,  and  the  sweet  buds 
Came  up  in  loveliness,  and  that  meek  dove 
Went  forth  to  build  her  nest,  while  thousand  birds 
Awoke  their  songs  of  praise,  and  the  tired  nrk 
Upon  the  breezy  breast  of  Ararat 
Reposed,  and  Noah,  with  glad  spirit,  reared 
An  altar  to  his  God. 


46  THE  ARK  AND  DOVE 

Since,  many  a  time, 

When  to  her  rest,  ere  evening's  earliest  star, 
That  little  one  is  laid,  with  earnest  tone, 
And  pure  cheek  prest  to  mine,  she  fondly  asks 
"  The  Ark  and  Dove." 

Mothers  can  tell  how  oft. 
In  the  heart's  eloquence,  the  prayer  goes  up 
From  a  sealed  lip  :  and  tenderly  hath  blent 
With  the  warm  teaching  of  the  sacred  tale 
A  voiceless  wish,  that  when  that  timid  soul, 
New  in  the  rosy  mesh  of  infancy, 
Fast  bound,  shall  dare  the  billows  of  the  world. 
Like  that  exploring  dove,  and  find  no  rest, 
A  pierced,  a  pitying,  a  redeeming  hand 
May  gently  guide  it  to  the  ark  of  peace. 


47 


SONG  OF  THE  ICELANDIC  FISHERMAPs 


YIELD  the  bark  to  the  breezes  free, 
Point  her  helm  to  the  far  deep  sea, 
Where  Heckla's  watch-fire,  streaming  wild, 
Hath  never  the  mariner's  eye  beguiled, 
Where,  in  boiling  baths,  strange  monsters  play 
Down  to  the  deep  sea — launch  away! 

Gay  over  coral  reefs  we  steer 

Where  moulder  the  bones  of  the  brave, 

Where  the  beautiful  sleep  on  their  humid  bier, 

And  the  pale  pearl  gleams  in  its  quenchless  sphore, 
The  lamp  of  their  Ocean  grave ; 

Swift  o'er  the  crested  surge  we  row; 

Down  to  the  fathomless  sea  we  go. 

King  of  Day !  to  thee  we  turn, 

May  our  course  be  blest  by  thee, 
Eyes  bright  as  thine  in  our  homes  shall  burn, 

When  again  our  hearths  we  see ; 
When  the  scaly  throng,  to  our  skill  a  prey 
At  the  feet  of  our  fur  clad  maids  we  iay. 


4S  SONG  OF  THE  ICELANDIC  FISHERMAN 

Thou  art  mighty  in  wrath,  devouring  tide ! 

The  strong  ship  loves  o'er  thy  foam  to  ride7 

Her  banner  by  bending  clouds  carest, 

The  waves  at  her  keel,  and  a  world  in  her  breast  • 

Thou  biddest  the  blast  of  thy  billows  sweep, 

Her  tall  masts  bow  to  the  cleaving  deep, 

And  seaPd  in  thy  cells  her  proud  ones  sleep. 

Our  sails  are  as  chaff,  when  the  tempest  raves, 
And  our  boat  a  speck  on  the  mountain  waves : 
Yet  we  pour  not  to  thee,  the  imploring  strain, 
We  soothe  not  thine  anger,  relentless  Main ! 
Libation  we  pour  not,  nor  vow,  nor  prayer, 

Our  hope  is  in  thee, 

God  of  the  sea ! 
The  deep  is  thy  path,  and  the  soul  thy  care. 


49 


THE  BRAVE  BROTHER. 


Two  little  brothers  thro'  the  forest  roam'd, 
In  old  time  far  away.*— Not  then,  as  now, 
The  lordly  mansion,  and  the  heavenward  spire 
Chequer'd  the  landscape, — but  the  low-roof'd  hur, 
With  here  and  there  a  wigwam — told  the  life 
Of  toil  and  hardship  of  the  sires  who  stood 
On  Plymouth-rock. 

The  children  wander'd  wide,— 
O'er  stream  and  thicket, — their  fresh  spirits  glad 
With  boyhood's  liberty. — Intent  they  sought 
The  ripening  nuts,  or  that  small,  purple  grape, 
Which  waiteth  for  the  frost  to  clarify 
The  acid  of  its  blood. 

But  their  lone  walk 

Was  all  too  early  for  such  sylvan  spoil ; 
For  jocund  autumn  still  delay'd  to  ope 
The  chestnut's  thorny  sheath,  or  to  divide 
The  quarter'd  coat  that  in  close  armour  wrapp'd 
The  hickory's  favourite  fruit. — 

Hark !  a  strange  sound 

Snarling,  and  hoarse :  and  thro'  the  parted  boughs 
Two  fiery  wolf-eyes  glared. — 


50 


THE  BRAVE  BROTHER. 


The  younger  boy,— 

As  the  fierce,  ravening  beast  his  form  reveal'd 
Transfix'd  with  horror,— fill'd  the  echoing  shades 
With  cries  of  anguish.     But  the  elder  felt 
A  sudden  manhood  thro'  his  pulses  start, 
Prompting  to  guard  and  save  the  helpless  one 
Or  die  beside  him. 

Soothing  with  kind  words 
The  frantic  child,  and  knowing  flight  was  vain, 
He  drew  his  wood-knife,  and  upon  the  sward 
Planting  his  bare  feet  firmly, — stood  resolv'd, — 
A  better  hero,  in  the  holy  warmth 
Of  deep  fraternal  love,— than  many  a  one 
Who  wins  the  world's  proud  laurel,  with  the  waste 
Of  others'  blood,  to  gratify  the  aims 
Of  pitiless  ambition. 

It  would  seem 

The  wolf  had  cower'd  a  moment,  at  the  glance 
Of  that  determined  eye, — but  with  fierce  growl 
And  open  jaws,  and  deadly  gnashing  teeth 
Still  nearer  drew. — 

Alas  !  the  mother's  heart, — 
Who  in  her  lowly  cabin  turn'd  the  wheel,— 
Singing,  at  times,  low  snatches  of  the  songs 
Brought  from  the  Father-land, — and  felt  no  thrill 
Premonit'—r,  of  her  darlings'  doom. — 
A  sudden,  «harp  report! — a  flying  shot! — 
The  monster  roll'd  in  blood. — 


THE  BRAVE  BROTHER. 

Through  rustling  boughs, 
A  red-brow'd  hunter  strode. — His  lofty  port, 
And  plumed  brow,  bespoke  a  chieftain's  pride, — 
While  with  a  bright,  approving  eye  he  scann'd 
The  noble  boy. — 

"  If  the  intruding  race 

Of  pale-fac'd  men  have  bosoms  brave  as  thine, — 
The  acorn  they  have  planted  in  the  wild 
Shall  take  deep  root  and  spread  its  branches  wide, 
O'er  land  and  sea, — upheld  by  Him  who  sits 
Above  the  thunder." 

Mid  the  forest-depths 

Again  he  plung'd, — while  to  their  humble  home 
The  brothers  hasted, — in  the  parents'  soul 
To  wake  the  enraptur'd  prayer  of  tearful  joy 
For  their  deliverance. 


52 


THE  ANCIENT  FAMILY  CLOCK. 


So,  here  thou  art,  old  friend, 
Ready  thine  aid  to  lend, 

With  honest  face. 
The  gilded  figures  just  as  bright 

Upon  thy  painted  case, 
As  when  I  ran  with  young  delight 

Their  garniture  to  trace, 

And  though  forbid  thy  burnished  robe  to  touch, 
Still  gazed  with  folded  hands,  admiring  long  and  much. 


But  where  is  she  who  sate 
Near  in  her  elbow  chair, 
Teaching  with  patient  care 
Life's  young  beginnner,  on  thy  dial  plate 
To  count  the  winged  minutes,  fleet  arid  fair, 
And  mark  each  hour  with  deeds  of  love? 
Lo,  she  hath  broke  her  league  with  time,  and  found  the 
rest  above. 

Thrice  welcome,  ancient  crone 
'Tis  sweet  to  gaze  on  thcc, 


THE  ANCIENT  FAMILY  CLOCK.  53 

And  hear  thy  busy  heart  beat  on. 

Come,  tell  old  tales  to  me  : 
Old  tales  such  as  I  love,  of  hoar  antiquity. 

Thou  hast  good  store,  I  trow, 

For  laughing  and  for  weeping, 
Things  very  strange  to  know, 

And  none  the  worse  for  keeping. 
Soft  tales  have  lovers  told 

Into  the  thrilling  ear, 
Till  midnight's  witching  hour  waxed  old, 
Deeming  themselves  alone,  while  thou  wert  near, 

In  thy  sly  corner  hid  sublime, 
With  thy  '  tick  tick'' — to  warn  how  Time 
Outliveth  Love,  boasting  itself  divine, 
Yet  fading  ere  the  wreath  which  its  fond  votaries   twine. 

The  unuttered  hopes  and  fears, 
The  deep  drawn  rapturous  tears, 

Of  young  paternity, 
Were  chronicled  by  thee. 

The  nursling's  first  faint  cry, 

Which  from  a  bright  haired  girl  of  dance  and  song, 
The  idol,  incense-fed,  of  an  adoring  throng, 
Did  make  a  mother,  with  her  quenchless  eyes 
Of  love,  and  truth,  and  trust,  and  holiest  memories  ; 

As  Death's  sharp  ministry, 
Robeth  an  angel,  when  the  mortal  dies. 


54  THE  ANCIENT  FAMILY  CLOCK. 

Thy  quick  vibrations  caught 

The  cradled  infant's  ear, 

And  while  it  scann'd  thy  face  with  curious  fear, 
Thou  did'st  awake  the  new-born  thought, 
Peering  through  the  humid  eye, 
Like  star-beam  in  a  misty  sky ; 
Though  the  nurse,  standing  still  more  near, 
Mark'd  but  the  body's  growing  wealth, 
And  praised  that  fair  machine  of  clay, 
Working  in  mystery  and  health 
Its  wondrous  way. 

Thy  voice  was  like  a  knell, 
Chiming  all  mournful  with  the  funeral  bell, 
When  stranger-feet  came  gathering  slow 
To  see  the  master  of  the  mansion  borne 
To  that  last  home,  the  narrow  and  the  low, 
From  whence  is  no  return. 

A  sluggard  wert  thou  to  the  impatient  breast, 

Of  watching  lover,  or  long-parted  wife, 
Counting  each  moment  while  the  day  unblest, 
Like  wounded  snake,  its  length  did  draw ; 

And  blaming  thee,  as  if  the  strife 
Of  wild  emotion  should  have  been  thy  law, 
When  thou  wert  pledged  in  amity  sublime, 
To  crystal-breasted  truth  and  sky-reporting  time. 


TflE  ANCIENT  FAMILY  CLOCK.  55 

Glad  signal  thou  hast  given 

For  the  gay  bridal,  when  with  flower- wreath'd  hair 
And  flushing  cheek,  the  youthful  pair 
Stand  near  the  priest  with  reverent  air, 

Dreaming  that  earth  is  heaven  : — 
And  thou  hast  heralded  with  joyance  fair 
The  green-wreathed  Christmas,  and  that  other  feast, 
With  which  the  hard  lot  of  colonial  care 
The  pilgrim-sire  besprinkled  ;  saving  well, 
The   golden  pumpkin,  and  the  fatted  beast, 
And  the  rich  apple,  with  its  luscious  swell, 
Till,  the  thanksgiving  sermon  duly  o'er, 
He  greets  his  children  at  his  humble  door, 
Bidding  them  welcome  to  his  plenteous  hoard, 

As,  gathering  from  their  distant  home, 
To  knit  their  gladden'd  hearts  in  love  they  come, 
Each  with  his  youngling  brood,  round  the  gray  father's 
board. 

Thou  hast  outlived  thy  maker,  ancient  clock  ! 

He  in  his  cold  grave  sleeps;  but  thy  slight  wheels 

Still  do  his  bidding,  yet  his  frailty  mock, 

While  o'er  his  name  oblivion  steals. 

O  Man !  so  prodigal  of  pride  and  praise, 

Thy  works  survive  thee — dead  machines  perform 

Their  revolution,  while  thy  scythe-shorn  days 

Yield  thee  a  powerless  prisoner  to  the  worm — 

How  dar'st  thou  sport  with  Time,  while  he 

5* 


66  THK  ANCIENT  FAMILY  CLOCK. 

Plunges  thee  darkly  in  Eternity  ? 
Haste!  ere  its  awful  wave  engulfs  thy  form, 
And  make  thy  peace  with   Him,  who  rules  above  the 
storm. 


57 


TO  A  SHRED  OF  LINEN. 


WOULD  they  swept  cleaner! — 

Here's  a  littering  shred 
Of  linen  left  behind — a  vile  reproach 
To  all  good  housewifery.     Right  glad  am  I, 
That  no  neat  lady,  train'd  in  ancient  times 
Of  pudding-making,  and  of  sampler-work, 
And  speckless  sanctity  of  household  care, 
Hath  happened  here,  to  spy  thee.     She,  no  doubt, 
Keen  looking  through  her  spectacles,  would  say, 
"  This  comes  of  reading  looks :" — or  some  spruce  beau 
Essenc'd  and  lily-handed,  had  he  chanc'd 
To  scan  thy  slight  superfices,  'twould  be 
"  This  comes  of  writing  poetry." — Well — well — 
Come  forth — offender! — hast  thou  aught  to  say? 
Canst  thou  by  merry  thought,  or  quaint  conceit, 
Repay  this  risk,  that  I  have  run  for  thee  ? 

Begin  at  alpha,  and  resolve  thyself 

Into  thine  elements.     I  see  the  stalk 

And  bright,  blue  flower  of  (lax,  which  erst  overspread 

That  fertile  land,  where  mighty  Moses  stretch'd 


58  TO  A  SHRED  OF  LINEN. 

His  rod  miraculous.     I  see  thy  bloom 
Tinging,  too  scantly,  these  New  England  vales. 
But,  lo !  the  sturdy  farmer  lifts  his  flail, 
To  crush  thy  bones  unpitying,  and  his  wife 
With  'kerchief'd  head,  and  eyes  brimful  of  dust, 
Thy  fibrous  nerves,  with  hatchel-tooth  divides. 

1  hear  a  voice  of  music — and  behold ! 

The  ruddy  damsel  singeth  at  her  wheel, 
While  by  her  side  the  rustic  lover  sits. 
Perchance,  his  shrewd  eye  secretly  doth  count 
The  mass  of  skeins,  which,  hanging  on  the  wall, 
Increaseth  day  by  day.     Perchance  his  thought, 
(For  men  have  deeper  minds  than  women — sure!) 
Is  calculating  what  a  thrifty  wife 
The  maid  will  make ;  and  how  his  dairy  shelves 
Shall  groan  beneath  the  weight  of  golden  cheese, 
Made  by  her  dexterous  hand,  while  many  a  keg 
Ana  pot  of  butter,  to  the  market  borne, 
May,  transmigrated,  on  his  back  appear, 
In  new  thanksgiving  coats. 

Fain  would  I  ask, 

Mine  own  New  England,  for  thy  once  loved  wheel, 
By  sofa  and  piano  quite  displaced. 
Why  dost  thou  banish  from  thy  parlor-hearth 
That  old  Hygeian  harp,  whose  magic  rul'd 
Dyspepsia,  as  the  minstrel-shepherd's  skill 
Exorcis'd  SauPs  ennui  ?     There  was  no  need, 
In  those  good  times,  of  callisthenics,  sure, 


TO  A  SHRED  OF  LINEN.  /)9 

And  there  was  less  of  gadding,  and  far  more 
Of  home-born,  heart-felt  comfort,  rooted  strong 
In  industry,  and  bearing  such  rare  fruit, 
As  wealth  might  never  purchase. 

But  come  back, 

Thou  shred  of  linen.     I  did  let  thee  drop, 
In  my  harangue,  as  wiser  ones  have  lost 
The  thread  of  their  discourse.     What  was  thy  lot 
When  the  rough  battery  of  the  loom  had  stretch'd 
And  knit  thy  sinews,  and  the  chemist  sun 
Thy  brown  complexion  bleach'd  ? 

Methinks  I  scan 

Some  idiosyncrasy,  that  marks  thee  out 
A  defunct  pillow-case. — Did  the  trim  guest, 
To  the  best  chamber  usher'd,  e'er  admire 
The  snowy  whiteness  of  thy  freshened  youth 
Feeding  thy  vanity  ?  or  some  sweet  babe 
Pour  its  pure  dream  of  innocence  on  thee  ? 
Say,  hast  thou  listened  to  the  sick  one's  moan, 
When  there  was  none  to  comfort  ? — or  shrunk  back 
From  the  dire  tossings  of  the  proud  man's  brow  ? 
Or  gather'd  from  young  beauty's  restless  sigh 
A  tale  of  untold  love  ? 

Still,  close  and  mute! — 

Wilt  tell  no  secrets,  ha  ? — Well  then,  go  down, 
With  all  thy  churl-kept  hoard  of  curious  lore, 
In  msijosty  and  mystery,  go  down 
Into  the  paper-mill,  and  from  its  jaws, 


00  TO  A  SHRED  OF  LINEN. 

Stainless  and  smooth,  emerge. — Happy  shall  be 
The  renovation,  if  on  thy  fair  page 
Wisdom  and  truth,  their  hallow'd  lineaments 
Trace  for  posterity.     So  shall  thine  end 
Be  better  than  thy  birth,  and  worthier  bard 
Thine  apotheosis  immortalise. 


THE  BUBBLE. 


OUT  springs  the  bubble,  dazzling  bright, 
With  ever-changing  hues  of  light. 
And  so  amid  the  flowery  grass 
Our  gilded  years  of  childhood  pass. 
Yet  bears  not  each  with  traitor  sway, 
Beneath  its  robe,  some  gem  away  ? 
Some  bud  of  hope,  at  morning  born, 
Without  the  memory  of  the  thorn  ? 
Some  fruit  that  ripen'd,  free  from  care  ? 
Where  are  those  vanish'd  treasures  ?  where  $ 

Then  knowledge,  with  her  letter'd  lore, 
Demands  us  at  the  nursery-door, 
Reproves  our  love  of  vain  delights, 
And  on  the  brow,  "  sub  jugum,"  writes. 
But  the  sweet  joys  of  earliest  days, 
The  buoyant  spirits,  wing'd  for  praise, 
Escape, — exhale.     We  thought  them  seal'd 
For  wintry  days,  their  charm  to  yield. 


62  THE  LurfBLE. 

Where  have  they  fled  ?     Go,  ask  the  sky, 
Where  fleet  the  dews,  when  suns  are  high. 

Upborne  by  history's  arm,  we  tread 

The  crumbling  soil,  o'er  nations  dead. 

The  buried  king,  the  mouldering  sage, 

The  relics  of  a  nameless  age, 

We  summon  forth,  with  vain  regret ; 

And  in  that  toil  our  heart  forget : — 

Till,  warn'd,  perchance,  by  wayward  dec  ds, 

How  much  that  realm  a  regent  needs, 

Renew,  with  pangs  of  contrite  pain, 

The  study  of  ourselves  again. 

While  thus  we  roam,  the  silver  hair 
Steals  o'er  our  temples  here  arid  there, 
And  beauty  starts,  amaz'd  to  see 
.         The  ploughshare  of  an  enemy. 

— What  is  that  haunt,  where  willows  wave  ? 

That  yawning  pit  ?     The  grave  !  the  grave ! 

The  turf  is  set,  the  violets  grow, 

The  throngs  rush  on,  where  we  lie  low. 

Our  name  is  lost,  amid  their  strife, 

The  bubble  bursts, — and  this  is  life  ' 


63 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 


AN  axe  rang  sharply  'mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  skies  had  tower'd 
In  unshorn  beauty.— There,  with  vigorous  arm 
Wrought  a  bold  Emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response. 
Beguil'd  the  toil. 

"  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 

Such  glorious  trees.     Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans.     Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sail'd, 
So  many  days,  on  toward  the  setting  sun  ? 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compar'd  to  that. 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." 

"  Father,  the  brook 

That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launch'd 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 

My  mother  nurtur'd  in  the  garden  bound, 
6 


G4  THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 
— "  What,  ho  !— my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire, 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contain'd 
His  noon's  repast,  look'd  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet  confiding  smile. 

"  See,  dearest,  see, 

That  bright-wing'd  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red-bird,  echoing  through  the  trees 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone  ?" 
— "  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Did  make  me  joyful,  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snow-drops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now 
Methinks,if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets." 

Slow  night  drew  on, 
And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  Emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 
Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 
Dashing  against  their  shores. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT.  65 

Starting  he  spake — 

"  Wife  !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear  ? 
'Twas  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 
"  No — no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which  'mid  the  church,  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  peal'd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolv'd  the  illusion." 

And  the  gentle  smile 

Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  sooth'd 
ITer  waking  infant,  reassur'd  his  soul 
That,  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content,  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank ; 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him. 

Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city — roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtur'd,proudly  neigh'd, 
The  favorite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark- — familiar  doors 
Flew  open— greeting  hands  with  his  were  link'd 


66  THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

In  friendship's  grasp — he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten — and  till  morning  rov'd 
Mid  the  lov'd  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


67 


ON   THE   ADMISSION   OF   MICHIGAN 
INTO   THE   UNION. 


COME  in,  little  sister,  so  healthful  and  fair, 
Come  take  in  our  father's  best  parlor  a  share, 
You've  been  kept  long  enough  at  the  nurse's,  I  trow. 
Where  the  angry  lakes  roar  and  the  northern  winds  blow 
Come  in,  we've  a  pretty  large  household,  'tis  true, 
But  the  twenty-five  children  can  make  room  for  you. 

A  present,  I  see,  for  our  sire  you  have  brought, 
His  dessert  to  embellish,  how  kind  was  the  thought  j 
A  treat  of  ripe  berries,  both  crimson  and  blue, 
And  wild  flowers  to  stick  in  his  button-hole  too, 
The  rose  from  your  prairie,  the  nuts  from  your  tree, 
What  a  good  little  sister — come  hither  to  me. 

You've  a  dowry  besides  very  cunningly  storM, 
To  fill  a  nice  cupboard,  or  spread  a  broad  board, 
Detroit,  Ypsilanti— Ann  Arbour  and  more— 
For  the  youngest,  methinks,  quits  a  plentiful  store, 
You're  a  prog,  I  perceive — it  is  true  to  the  letter, 
And  your  sharp  Yankee  sisters  will  like  you  the  better 
6* 


08  ADMISSION  OF  MT(  IIKJAN  INTO  TI1K  UNION 

But  where  are  your  Indians — so  feeble  and  few  ? 

So  fall'n  from  the  heights  where  their  forefathers  grew! 

From  the  forests  they  fade,  o'er  the  waters  that  bore 

The  names  of  their  baptism,  they  venture  no  more — 

O  soothe  their  sad  hearts  ere  they  vanish  afar, 

Nor  quench  the  faint  beams  of  their  westering  star. 

Those  ladies  who  sit  on  the  sofa  so  high, 

Are  the  stateliest  dames  of  our  family, 

Your  thirteen  old  sisters,  don't  treat  them  with  scorn, 

They  were  notable  spinsters  before  you  were  born, 

Many  stories  they  know,  most  instructive  to  hear, 

Go,  make  them  a  curtsy,  'twill  please  them,  my  dear. 

They  can  teach  you  the  names  of  those  great  ones  to  spell, 
Who  stood  at  the  helm,  when  the  war  tempest  fell, 
They  will  show  you  the  writing  that  gleam'd  to  the  sky 
In  the  year  seventy-six,  on  the  fourth  of  July ; 
When  the  flash  of  the  Bunker-Hill  flame  was  red, 
And  the  blood  gush'd  forth  from  the  breast  of  the  dead. 

There  are  some  who  may  call  them  both  proud  and  old, 
And  say  they  usurp  what  they  cannot  hold ; 
Perhaps,  their  bright  locks  have  a  sprinkle  of  gray, 
But  then,  little  Michy,  don't  hint  it,  I  pray ; 
For  they'll  give  you  a  frown,  or  a  box  on  the  ear, 
Or  send  you  to  stand  in  the  corner,  I  fear. 


ADMISSION  OF  MICHIGAN  INTO  THE  UNION.  69 

They,  indeed,  bore  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day, 
But  you've  as  good  right  to  your  penny  as  they ; 
Though  the  price  of  our  freedom,  they  better  have  known. 
Since  they  paid  for  it,  out  of  their  purses  alone, 
Yet  a  portion  belongs  to  the  youngest,  I  ween, 
So,  hold  up  your  head  with  the  "  Old  Thirteen/* 


70 


SOLITUDE. 


DEEP  Solitude  I  sought.     There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day, 
While,  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  back-ground  'gainst  the  sky. 

Thither  1  went, 

And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount, 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  'mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world. — I  thought  to  be 
There  without  witness. — But  the  violet's  eye 
Looked  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  young  pendent  vine-flower  kissed  my  cheek, 
There  were  glad  voices  too. — The  garrulous  brook, 
Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history. — Up  came  the  singing  breeze, 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive,  every  one. — Even  busy  life 
Woke  in  that  dell.     The  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray,  the  silver-tissued  snare. 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 
The  rifled  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel. 


SOLITUDE.  7] 

To  her  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee, 
While,  from  her  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
Sang  to  her  nurslings. 

Yet  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone  and  silent  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love ! — It  might  not  be ! — 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 
Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  his  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joy,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 
Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 
Without  a  witness.     Even  the  desert  place 
Speaketh  thy  name.     The  simple  flowers  and  streams 
Are  social  and  benevolent,  and  he, 
Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure, 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day, 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  drest, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart. 


VATURE'S  ROYALTY. 


me  a  king,  whose  high  decree 

By  all  his  realm  is  blest, 
Whose  heaven-deputed  sway  shall  be 

Deep  in  his  subjects'  breast." 
And  lo !  a  radiant  throne  was  nigh, 

A  gorgeous  purple  robe, 
A  lofty  form,  an  eagle  eye, 

That  aimed  to  rule  the  globe. 

Peers  at  his  bidding  came  and  went, 

Proud  hosts  to  battle  trod ; 
Even  high-soiil'd  Genius  humbly  bent 

And  hailed  him  as  a  god. 
Wealth  spread  her  treasures  to  his  sight, 

Fame  bade  her  clarion  roll ; — 
But  yet  his  sceptre  seemed  to  blight 

The  freedom  of  the  soul. 

And  deep  within  his  bosom  lay 
The  poisonM  shaft  of  care, 


NATURE'S  ROYALTY.  73 

Nor  ermined  pomp,  nor  regal  sway 

Forbade  its  rankling  there. 
No  fearless  truth  his  ear  addressed, 

Though  thousands  sang  his  praise ; 
A  hollow-hearted  thing  at  best 

Was  all  their  courtly  phrase. 

I  saw  Suspicion  cloud  his  day, 

And  fear  his  firmness  move; 
And  felt  there  was  no  perfect  sway 

Save  what  is  built  on  love. 
•fc  Show  me  a  king." — They  brought  a  child 

Clad  in  his  robe  of  white, 
His  golden  curls  waved  loose  and  wild, 

His  full  blue  eye  was  bright. 

A  haughty  warrior  strode  that  way, 

Whose  crest  had  never  bowed 
Beneath  his  brother  of  the  clay 

In  battle  or  in  crowd: — 
Yet  down  before  that  babe  he  bent, 

A  captive  to  his  charms, 
And  meek,  as  with  a  slave's  intent, 

Received  him  in  his  arms. 

Beauty  was  near,  and  love's  warm  sigh 

Burst  forth  from  manhood's  breast, 
While  pride  was  kindling  in  that  eye 


/4  NATURE'S  ROYALTY. 

Which  saw  its  power  congest : — 
"Sing  me  a  song,"  the  urchin  cried, 

And  from  her  lips  did  part, 
A  strain  to  kneeling  man  denied, 

Rich  music  of  the  heart. 

A  sage  austere,  for  learning  famed, 

Frown'd  with  abstracted  air : 
"Tell  me  a  tale,"  the  child  exclaimed, 

And  boldly  climbed  his  chair : 
While  he  (how  wondrous  was  the  change .) 

Poured  forth,  in  language  free, 
Enforc'd  with  gestures  strong  and  strange, 

A  tale  of  Araby. 

"  I  sought  a  king :" — but  Nature  cried 

His  royalty  revere, 
Who  conquers  beauty,  power  and  pride, 

Thus  with  a  smile  or  tear : 
The  anointed  monarch's  eye  may  wake, 

His  bosom  grieve  alone, 
But  infant  Innocence  doth  make 

The  human  heart  its  throne. 


75 


THE    TIME    TO    DIE. 


There  is  a  time  to  die. 

KING  SOLOMON. 


I  HEARD  a  stranger's  hearse  move  heavily 
Along  the  pavement.     Its  deep  gloomy  pall 
No  hand  of  kindred  or  of  friend  upbore. 
But  from  the  cloud,  that  veiled  his  western  couch, 
The  lingering  sun  shed  forth  one  transient  ray, 
Like  sad  and  tender  farewell  to  some  plant 
Which  he  had  nourished.     On  the  giddy  crowd 
Went  dancing  in  their  own  enchanted  maze, 
Drowning  the  echo  of  those  tardy  wheels 
Which  hoarsely  warn'd  them  of  a  time  to  die. 
I  saw  a  sable  train  in  sorrow  bend 
Around  a  tomb. — There  was  a  stifled  sob, 
And  now  and  then  a  pearly  tear  fell  down 
Upon  the  tangled  grass. — But  then  there  came 
The  damp  clod  harshly  on  the  coffin  lid, 
Curdling  the  life  blood  at  the  mourner's  heart, 
While  audibly  it  spake  to  every  ear 
"  There  is  a  time  to  die." 
7 


76  THE  TIME  TO  DIE. 

And  then  it  seemed 

As  if  from  every  mound  and  sepulchre 
In  that  lone  cemetery — from  the  sward 
Where  slept  the  span-long  infant — to  the  grave 
Of  him  who  dandled  on  his  wearied  knee 
Three  generations — from  the  turf  that  veil'd 
The  wreck  of  mouldering  beauty,  to  the  bed 
Where  shrank  the  loathed  beggar — rose  a  cry 
From  all  those  habitants  of  silence — "  Yea! — 
There  is  a  time  to  die." 

Methought  that  truth, 
In  every  tongue,  and  dialect,  and  tone, 
PeaPd  o'er  each  region  of  the  rolling  globe  j 
The  simoon  breathed  it,  and  the  earthquake  groaoM 
A  hollow,  deep  response — the  avalanche 
Wrote  it  in  terror  on  a  snowy  scroll — 
The  red  volcano  belch'd  it  forth  in  flames — 
Old  Ocean  bore  it  on  his  whelming  surge, 
And  yon,  pure,  broad,  cerulean  arch  grew  dark, 
With  death's  eternal  darts. — But  joyous  Man, 
To  whom  kind  heaven  the  ceaseless  warning  sent, 
Turn'd  to  his  phantom  pleasures,  and  deferr'd, 
To  some  convenient  hour,  the  time  to  die. 


77 


FORGOTTEN  FLOWERS  TO  A  BRIDE 


WE  were  left  behind,  but  wt  would  not  stay, 

We  found  your  clue,  and  have  kept  the  way, 

For,  sooth  to  tell,  the  track  was  plain 

Of  a  bliss  like  yours,  in  a  world  of  pain. 

— How  little  we  thought,  when  so  richly  wo  di^st, 

To  go  to  your  wedding,  and  vie  with  the  best, 

When  we  made  our  toilette,  with  such  elegant  care, 

That  we  might  not  disgrace  an  occasion  so  rare, 

To  be  whirl'd  in  a  coach,  at  this  violent  rate, 

From  county  to  county,  and  State  to  State ! 

— Though  we  travelled  incog,  yet  we  trembled  with  fe 

For  the  accents  of  strangers  fell  hoarse  on  our  ear-, 

We  could  hear  every  word,  as  we  quietly  lay 

In  the  snug  box  of  tin,  where  they  stow'd  us  away : 

But  how  would  our  friends  at  a  distance  have  known 

If,  charm'd  by  our  beauty,  they'd  made  us  their  own  ? 

— All  unus'd  to  the  taverns  and  roads,  as  we  were, 

Our  baggage  and  bones  were  a  terrible  care : 

Yet  we've  'scaped  every  peril,  the  journey  is  o'er, 

And  hooded  and  cloak'd,  we  are  safe  at  your  door. 


78  FORGOTTEN  FLOWERS  TO  A  BRIDE. 

— We  bring  you  a  gift  from  your  native  skies, 
The  crystal  gem  from  affection's  eyes, 
Which  tenderly  trickles,  when  dear  ones  part, 
We  have  wrapp'd  it  close  in  the  rose's  heart : 
We  are  charg'd  with  a  mother's  benison  kiss, 
Will  y  ou  welcome  us  in,  to  your  halls,  for  this  ? 
— We  are  chilPd  with  the  cold  of  our  wintry  way, 
Our  message  is  done,  we  must  fade  away  : 
Let  us  die  on  your  breast,  and  our  prayer  shall  be 
For  an  Eden-wreath  to  thy  love  and  thee. 


79 


THE  FATHERS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


How  slow  yon  lonely  vessel  ploughs  the  main  ! 
Amid  the  heavy  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toiling  atom  ;  then,  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lash'd,  or  reels 
Half  wreck'd  through  gulfs  profound. 

Moons  wax  and  wane, 

But  still  that  patient  traveller  treads  the  deep. 
— I  see  an  ice-bound  coast  toward  which  she  steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement,  that  it  seems 
Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  turn'd  her  keel  to  stone, 
And  seal'd  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds. 
— They  land  !  they  land  !  not  like  the  Genoese 
With  glittering  sword,  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies.     Forth  they  come 
From  their  long  prison,  hardy  forms  that  brave 
The  world's  unkindness,  men  of  hoary  hair, 
Maidens  of  fearless  heart,  and  matrons  grave, 
Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  glance. 
Bleak  Nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round, 
Eternal  forests,  and  unyielding  earth, 
7* 


80          THE  FATHERS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 
With  vengeful  arrow.     What  could  lure  their  steps 
To  this  drear  desert  ?     Ask  of  him  who  left 
His  father's  home  to  roam  through  Haran's  wild, 
Distrusting  not  the  guide  who  calPd  him  forth, 
Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 
Should  be  as  ocean's  sands. 

But  yon  lone  bark 
Hath  spread  her  parting  sail. 

They  crowd  the  strand. 

Those  few,  lone  pilgrims.     Can  ye  scan  the  wo 
That  wrings  their  bosoms,  as  the  last,  frail  link, 
Binding  to  man,  and  habitable  earth, 
Is  sever'd  ?     Can  ye  tell  what  pangs  were  there, 
With  keen  regrets,  what  sickness  of  the  heart, 
What  yearnings  o'er  their  forfeit  land  of  birth, 
Their  distant,  dear  ones  ? 

Long,  with  straining  eye, 

They  watch  the  lessening  speck.     Heard  ye  no  shriek 
Of  anguish,  when  that  bitter  loneliness 
Sank  down  into  their  bosoms  ?     No  !  they  turn 
Back  to  their  dreary,  famish'd  huts,  and  pray  ! 
Pray,  and  the  ills  that  haunt  this  transient  life 
Fade  into  air.     Up  in  each  girded  breast 
There  sprang  a  rooted  and  mysterious  strength, 
A  loftiness,  to  face  a  world  in  arms, 
To  strip  the  pomp  from  sceptres,  and  to  lay, 
On  duty's  sacred  altar,  the  warm  blood 


THE  FATHERS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND.          31 

Of  slain  affections,  should  they  rise  between 
The  soul  and  God. 

Oh  ye,  who  proudly  boast, 
In  your  free  veins,  the  blood  of  sires  like  these. 
Guard  well  their  lineaments.     Dread  lest  ye  lose 
Their  likeness  in  your  sons. 

Should  Mammon  cling 

Too  close  around  your  heart,  or  wealth  beget 
That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 
From  manly  virtue,  or  the  tempting  world 
Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul, 
Turn  ye  to  Plymouth-rock,  and  where  they  knelt 
Kneel,  and  renew  the  vow  they  breath'd  to  God. 


82 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  ROSE. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAIR  YOUNG  LADY. 


THE  Rose  was  saturate  with  dew, 

As  fresh  as  Nature  sends, 
And  with  as  bright  a  sun-beam  too, 

As  Earth's  brief  summer  lends  ; 
Yet  still  it  long'd  with  an  ardent  flame 
For  that  blessed  sphere  whence  its  blushes  came, 

Gazing  up  to  that  cloudless  sky 
Where  Beauty  and  Love,  with  their  glorious  oye 

Ripen,  and  ripen, — but  never  die. 

Its  damask  lip  to  the  turf  was  prest, 

And  tears  like  rain-drops  fell, 
When  it  sank  from  the  stalk  and  the  florist's  breast 
That  had  sheltered  it  long,  and  well, — 

And  its  fragrance  fled 

From  the  garden-bed, 
Where  it  lifted  its  queenly  crown; — 

Yet  a  spirit-sigh 
From  the  realms  on  high 
To  the  mourner's  heart  came  down. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  ROSE.  83 

'Twas  there ! — That  peerless  Rose  was  there, 

Where  no  frosts,  nor  mildews  are. — 
Tenclerest  friends ! — whose  watchful  care 
Mark'd  its  infant  bud  unclose, 

Ye  fear'd  the  blight  for  it. 
The  winds,  with  moody  fit, — 

The  wintry  snows  ; — 
Now,  Fear  hath  fled  away, 
Hope  hath  no  prayer  to  say, 
For  it  blooms  where  Heaven's  pure  ray 
Unchanging  glows. 


84 


THOUGHT. 


'  By  thy  thoughts  thou  shah  be  judged." 


STAY,  winged  thought !     I  fain  would  question  thee ; 
Though  thy  bright  pinion  is  less  palpable 
Than  filmy  gossamer,  more  swift  in  flight 
Than  light's  transmitted  ray. 

Art  thou  a  friend  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  answer  me.     Thou  hast  no  voice 
For  mortal  ear.     Thy  language  is  with  God. 
— I  fear  thee.     Thou'rt  a  subtle  husbandman, 
Sowing  thy  little  seed,  of  good  or  ill, 
In  the  moist,  unsunn'd  surface  of  the  heart. 
But  what  thou  there  in  secresy  dost  plant 
Stands  with  its  ripe  fruit  at  the  judgment-day. 
—What  hast  thou  dared  to  leave  within  my  breast  ? 
Tell  me  thy  ministry  in  that  lock'd  cell 
Of  which  I  keep  the  key,  till  Deatli  shall  come. 
Knowest  thou  that  I  must  give  account  for  thee  ? 


THOUGHT. 


Disrobe  thee  of  thy  mystery,  and  show 
What  witness  thou  hast  borne  to  the  high  Judge. 
—  Oh  Man  !  so  prodigal  of  words,  in  deeds 
Oft  wise  and  wary,  lest  thy  brother  worm 
Should  hang  thereon  his  echo-taunt  of  shame, 
How  dar'st  thou  trifle  with  all-fearful  thought? 
—Beware  of  thoughts.     They  whisper  to  the  heavens. 
Though  mute  to  thee,  they  prompt  the  diamond  pen 
Of  the  recording  angel. 

Make  them  friends! 

Those  dread  seed-planters  for  Eternity, 
Those  sky-reporting  heralds.     Make  them  friends  ! 


86 


SCHOOL  OF  YOUNG  LADIES. 


How  fair  upon  the  admiring  sight, 

In  Learning's  sacred  fane, 
With  cheek  of  bloom,  and  robe  of  white, 

Glide  on  yon  graceful  train. 
Blest  creatures  !  to  whose  gentle  eye 

Earth's  gilded  gifts  are  new, 
Ye  know  not  that  distrustful  sigh 

Which  deems  its  vows  untrue. 

There  is  a  bubble  on  your  cup 

By  buoyant  fancy  nurs'd, 
How  high  its  sparkling  foam  leaps  up! 

Ye  do  not  think  'twill  burst : 
And  be  it  far  from  me  to  fling 

On  budding  joys  a  blight, 
Or  darkly  spread  a  raven's  wing 

To  shade  a  path  so  bright. 

There  twines  a  wreath  around  your  brow, 
Blent  with  the  sunny  braid ; 


SCHOOL  OF  YOUNG  LADIES.  §7 

Love  lends  its  flowers  a  radiant  glow — 

Ye  do  not  think  'twill  fade : 
And  yet  'twere  safer  there  to  bind 

That  plant  of  changeless  dye, 
Whose  root  is  in  the  lowly  mind, 

Whose  blossom  in  the  sky. 

But  who  o'er  beauty's  form  can  hang, 

Nor  think  how  future  years 
May  bring  stern  sorrow's  speechless  pang 

Or,  disappointment's  tears, 
Unceasing  toil,  unpitied  care, 

Cold  treachery's  serpent  moan — 
Ills  that  the  tender  heart  must  bear, 

Unanswering  and  alone. 

Yet,  as  the  frail  and  fragrant  flower, 

Crushed  by  the  sweeping  blast, 
Doth  even  in  death  an  essence  pour. 

The  sweetest,  and  the  last, 
So  woman's  deep,  enduring  love, 

Which  nothing  can  appal, 
Her  steadfast  faith,  that  looks  above 

For  rest,  can  conquer  all. 


8 


NIAGARA. 


FLOW  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathom'd  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead :  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder,  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thine  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Earth  fears  to  lift 

The  insect-trump  that  tells  her  trifling  joys 
Or  fleeting  triumphs,  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn.     Proud  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  all  his  waves 
Retire  abash'd.     For  h*  hath  need  to  sleep, 
Sometimes,  like  a  spent  laborer,  calling  home 
His  boisterous  billows,  from  their  vexing  play, 


NIAGARA.  89 

To  a  long,  dreary  calm :  but  thy  strong  tide 
Faints  not,  nor  e'er  with  failing  heart,  forgets 
Its  everlasting  lesson,  night  nor  day. 
The  morning  stars,  that  hail'd  creation's  birth. 
Heard  thy  hoarse  anthem,  mixing  with  their  song 
Jehovah's  name ;  and  the  dissolving  fires, 
That  wait  the  mandate  of  the  day  of  doom 
To  wreck  the  earth,  shall  find  it  deep  inscrib'd 
Upon  thy  rocky  scroll. 

The  lofty  trees 

That  list  thy  teachings,  scorn  the  lighter  lore 
Of  the  too  fitful  winds  ;  while  their  young  leaves 
Gather  fresh  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo  !  yon  birds, 
How  bold  they  venture  near,  dipping  their  wing 
In  all  thy  mist  and  foam.     Perchance  'tis  meet 
For  them  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  or  stir 
Thy  diamond  wreath,  who  sport  upon  the  cloud. 
Unblam'd,  or  warble  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.     But,  as  for  us,  it  seems 
Scarce  lawful,  with  our  erring  lips  to  talk 
Familiarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  trace 
Thine  awful  features,  with  our  pencil's  point 
Were  but  to  press  on  Sinai. 

Thou  dost  spe^k 
Alone  of  God,  who  pour'd  thee  as  a  drop 


90  NIAGARA. 

From  his  right-hand, — bidding  the  soul  that  looks 
Upon  thy  fearful  majesty,  be  still, 
Be  humbly  wrapp'd  in  its  own  nothingness, 
And  lose  itself  in  Him. 


91 


THE  SICK  CHILD. 


THY  fever'd  arms  around  me, 
My  little,  suffering  boy — 

Tis  better  thus  with  thee  to  watch, 
Than  share  in  fashion's  joy. 

The  pale  nurse-lamp  is  waning 

Upon  the  shaded  hearth, 
And  dearer  is  its  light  to  me 

Than  the  gay  flambeau's  mirth. 

I've  lov'd  the  merry  viol 

That  spurs  the  dancer's  heel, 

And  those  soft  tremblings  of  the  lute 
O'er  summer's  eve  that  steal ; 

But  when  hath  richest  music 

Been  to  my  soul  so  dear, 
As  that  half-broken  sob  of  thine 

Which  tells  that  sleep  is  near? 


THE  SICK  CHILD. 

I  knew  not  half  how  precious 
The  cup  of  life  might  be, 

Till  o'er  thy  cradle  bed  I  knelt, 
And  learn'd  to  dream  of  thec ; 

Till  at  the  midnight  hour  I  found 
Thy  head  upon  my  arm, 

And  saw  thy  full  eye  fix'd  on  mine, 
A  strong,  mysterious  charm  ; 

Till  at  thy  first  faint  lisping 
That  tear  of  rapture  stole, 

Which  ever  as  a  pearl  had  slept 
Deep  in  the  secret  soul. 

A  coffin  small,  and  funeral, 

With  all  their  sad  array, 
Gleam  as  my  broken  slumbers  fleet 

On  sable  wing  away. 

Rouse,  rouse  me,  ere  such  visions 
My  heated  brain  can  sear, 

For  still  my  baby's  heavy  knell 
Comes  booming  o'er  my  ear. 

Cling  closer,  round  my  bosom 
Thy  feeble  arms  entwine, 


THE  SICK  CHILD.  93 

And  while  the  life-throb  stirs  thy  heart, 
Be  as  a  part  of  mine. 

That  start,  that  cry,  that  struggle ! 

My  God — I  am  but  clay, 
Have  pity  on  a  bruised  reed, 

Give  thy  compassions  way ; 

Send  forth  thy  strength  to  gird  me, 

Impart  a  power  divine, 
To  wring  out  sorrow's  dregs,  and  say 

"  Oh  !  not  my  will  but  thine." 


94 


TWILIGHT. 


I  WOULD  ye  had  not  glared  on  me  so  soon, 
Officious  lamps  ! — that  gild  the  parlor  scene 
With  such  oppressive  brightness. — They  were  here 
Whose  garments  like  the  tissue  of  our  dreams 
Steal  o'er  the  eye,  and  win  it  from  the  world. 
They  smiled  on  me  so  sweetly,  and  their  hands 
Clasped  mine,  and  their  calm  presence  woo'd  away 
The  throb  of  grief  so  tenderly — I  would 
That  twilight  to  the  purple  peep  of  dawn 
Had  kindly  lingered. 

She,  who  nearest  hung, 

Pressing  my  head  to  her  meek,  matron  breast, 
Was  one  who  lulled  me  to  my  cradle  sleep, 
With  such  blest  melodies  as  memory  pours 
Fresh  from  her  echo-harp,  when  the  fond  heart 
Asks  for  its  buried  joys. — Slow  years  have  sown 
Rank  rooted  herbage  o'er  her  lowly  couch, 
Since  she  arose  to  chant  that  endless  song 
Which  hath  no  dissonance. 

Another  form 


TWILIGHT.  95 

Sat  at  her  feet,  whose  brow  was  bright  with  bloom 

When  the  cold  grave  shut  o'er  it. — It  hath  left 

Its  image  every  where — upon  my  books, 

My  bower  of  musing,  and  my  page  of  thought, 

And  the  lone  altar  of  the  secret  soul. 

Would  that  those  lips  had  spoken ! — yet  I  hear 

Always  their  ring-dove  murmuring,  when  I  tread 

Our  wonted  shady  haunts. 

Say,  is  there  aught 

Like  the  tried  friendship  of  the  sacred  dead  ? 
It  cannot  hide  its  face,  it  changeth  not, 
Grieves  not,  suspects  not,  may  not  fleet  away ; 
For  as  a  seal  upon  the  melted  heart 
'Tis  set  forever. — Sure  'tis  weak  to  mourn 
Though  thorns  are  at  the  bosom,  or  the  blasts 
Of  this  bleak  world  beat  harshly,  if  there  come 
Such  angel-visitants  at  even-tide, 
Or  midnight's  holy  hush,  to  cleanse  away 
The  stains  which  day  hath  gathered,  and  with  touch 
Pure  and  ethereal  to  sublimate 
The  erring  spirit. 


06 


FUNERAL  OF  MAZEEN. 

.HIE  LAST  OF  THE  ROYAL  LINE  OF  THE  MOHEGAN  NATIOV. 


'JV>iD  the  trodden  turf  is  an  open  grave, 

And  a  funeral  train  where  the  wild  flowers  wave, 

And  a  manly  sleeper  doth  seek  his  bed 

In  the  narrow  house  of  the  sacred  dead, 

Yet  the  soil  hath  scantily  drank  of  the  tear, 

For  the  red-brow'd  few  are  the  mourners  here. 

They  have  lower'd  the  prince  to  his  resting  spot, 
The  deep  prayer  hath  swell'd,  but  they  heed  it  not. 
Their  abject  thoughts  'mid  his  ashes  grope, 
And  quench'd  in  their  souls  is  the  light  of  hope ; 
Know  ye  their  pangs,  who  turn  away 
The  vassal  foot  from  a  monarch's  clay  ? 

With  the  dust  of  kings  in  this  noteless  shade, 
The  last  of  a  royal  line  is  laid, 
In  whose  stormy  veins  that  current  roll'd 
Which  curb'd  the  chief  and  the  warrior  bold ; 
Yet  pride  still  burns  in  their  humid  clay, 
Though  the  pomp  of  the  sceptre  hath  pass'd  away. 


FUNERAL  OF  MAZEEN.  97 

They  spake,  and  the  war-dance  wheel'd  its  round, 
Or  the  wretch  to  the  torturing  stake  was  bound ; 
They  lifted  their  hand,  and  the  eagle  fell 
From  his  sunward  flight,  or  his  cloud- wrapt  cell  ; 
They  frown'd,  and  the  tempest  of  battle  arose, 
And  streams  were  stain'd  with  the  blood  of  foes. 

Be  silent,  O  Grave !  o'er  thy  hoarded  trust, 
And  smother  the  voice  of  the  royal  dust ; 
The  ancient  pomp  of  their  council-fires, 
Their  simple  trust  in  our  pilgrim  sires, 
The  wiles  that  blasted  their  withering  race, 
Hide,  hide  them  deep  in  thy  darkest  place. 

Till  the  rending  caverns  shall  yield  their  dead, 

Till  the  skies  as  a  burning  scroll  are  red, 

Till  the  wondering  slave  from  his  chain  shall  spring, 

And  to  falling  mountains  the  tyrant  cling, 

Bid  all  their  woes  with  their  relics  rest 

And  bury  their  wrongs  in  thy  secret  breast. 

But,  when  aroused  at  the  trump  of  doom, 

Ye  shall  start,  bold  kings,  from  your  lowly  tomb, 

When  some  bright-wing'd  seraph  of  mercy  shall  bend 

Your  stranger  eye  on  the  Sinner's  Friend, 

Kneel,  kneel,  at  His  throne  whose  blood  was  spilt, 

And  plead  for  your  pale-brow'd  brother's  guilt. 


98 


THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 


WHEELS  o'er  the  pavement  roll'd,  and  a  slight  form, 
Just  in  the  bud  of  blushing  womanhood, 
Reach'd  the  paternal  threshold.     Wrathful  night 
Muffled  the  timid  stars,  and  rain-drops  hung 
On  that  fair  creature's  rich  and  glossy  curls. 
She  stood  and  shiver'd,  but  no  mother's  hand 
Dried  those  damp  tresses,  and  with  warm  caress 
Sustain'd  the  weary  spirit.     No,  that  hand 
Was  with  the  cold,  dull  earth  worm. 

Gray  and  sad, 

The  tottering  nurse  rose  up,  and  that  old  man, 
The  soldier-servant  who  had  train'd  the  steeds 
Of  her  slain  brothers  for  the  battle  field, 
Essay'd  to  lead  her  to  the  couch  of  pain, 
Where  her  sick  father  pined. 

Oft  had  he  yearn'd 

For  her  sweet  presence,  oft  in  midnight's  watch, 
Mus'd  of  his  dear  one's  smile,  till  dreams  restor'd 
The  dove-like  dalliance  of  her  ruby  lip 
Breathing  his  woes  away.     While  distant  far. 


THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 

She,  patient  student,  bending  o'er  her  tasks, 
Toil'd  for  the  fruits  of  knowledge,  treasuring  still, 
In  the  heart's  casket,  his  approving  word 
And  the  pure  music  of  the  welcome  home, 
Rich  payment  of  her  lahors. 

But  there  came 

A  summons  of  surprise,  and  on  the  wings 
Of  filial  love  she  hasted.     'Twas  too  late ; 
The  lamp  of  life  still  burned,  yet  'twas  too  late. 
The  mind  had  pass'd  away,  and  who  could  call 
Its  wing  from  out  the  sky  ? 

For  the  embrace 

Of  strong  idolatry,  was  but  the  glare 
Of  a  fix'd  vacant  eye.     Disease  had  dealt 
A  fell  assassin's  blow.     Oh  God!  the  blight 
That  fell  on  those  fresh  hopes,  when  all  in  vain 
The  passive  hand  was  grasp'd  and  the  wide  halls 
Re-echoed  "father!  father!" 

Through  the  shades 

Of  that  long,  silent  night,  she  sleepless  bent ; 
Bathing  with  tireless  hand  the  unmov'd  brow, 
And  the  death-pillow  smoothing.     When  fair  morn 
Came  with  its  rose  tint  up,  she  shrieking  clasp'd 
Her  hands  in  joy,  for  its  reviving  ray 
Flush'd  that  wan  brow,  as  if  with  one  brief  trace 
Of  waken'd  intellect.     'Twas  seeming  all, 
And  Hope's  fond  vision  faded,  as  the  day 

Rode  on  in  glory. 

9 


J  W)  THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 

Eve,  her  curtain  drew 

And  found  that  pale  and  beautiful  watcher  there. 
Still  unreposing.     Restless  on  his  couch 
Toss'd  the  sick  man.     Cold  lethargy  had  steep'd 
Its  last  dead  poppy  in  his  heart's  red  stream, 
And  agony  was  stirring  Nature  up 
To  struggle  with  her  foe. 

"  Father  in  heaven ! 

Oh  give  him  sleep !"  sigh'd  an  imploring  voice, 
And  then  she  ran  to  hush  the  measur'd  tick 
Of  the  dull  night-clock,  and  to  scare  the  owl 
That,  clinging  to  the  casement,  hoarsely  pour'd 
A  boding  note.     But  soon,  from  that  lone  couch 
A  hollow  groan  announc'd  the  foe  that  strikes 
But  once. 

They  bore  the  fainting  girl  away, 
And  paler  than  that  ashen  corse,  her  face 
Half  by  a  flood  of  ebon  tresses  hid 
Droop'd  o'er  the  old  nurse's  shoulder.     It  was  sad 
To  see  a  young  heart  breaking,  while  the  old 
Sank  down  to  rest. 

There  was  another  change. 
The  mournful  bell  toll'd  out  the  funeral  hour, 
And  groups  came  gathering  to  the  gate  where  stood 
The  sable  hearse.     Friends  throng'd  with  heavy  hearts, 
And  curious  villagers,  intent  to  scan 
The  lordly  mansion,  and  cold  worldly  men, 
Even  o'er  the  coffin  and  the  warning  shroud, 


THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER.  101 

Revolving  selfish  schemes. 

But  one  was  there, 

To  whom  all  earth  could  render  nothing  back, 
Like  that  pale  changeless  brow.     Calmly  she  stood, 
As  marble  statue.     Not  one  trickling  tear, 
Or  trembling  of  the  eye-lid  told  she  liv'd, 
Or  tasted  sorrow.     The  old  house-dog  came, 
Pressing  his  rough  head  to  her  snowy  palm, 
All  unreproved. 

He  for  his  master  mourn'd ; 
And  could  she  spurn  that  faithful  friend,  who  oft 
His  shaggy  length  through  many  a  fireside  hour 
Stretch'd  at  her  father's  feet?  who  round  his  bed 
Of  sickness  watch'd  with  wistful,  wondering  eye 
Of  earnest  sympathy  ?     No,  round  his  neck 
Her  infant  arms  had  clasp'd,  and  still  he  rais'd 
His  noble  front  beside  her,  proud  to  guard 
The  last,  lovM  relic  of  his  master's  house. 

The  deadly  calmness  of  that  mourner's  brow 

Was  a  deep  riddle  to  the  lawless  thought 

Of  whispering  gossips.     Of  her  sire  they  spake, 

Who  suffer'd  not  the  winds  of  heaven  to  touch 

The  tresses  of  his  darling,  and  who  dream'd 

In  the  warm  passion  of  his  heart's  sole  love 

She  was  a  mate  for  angels.     Bold  they  gaz'd 

Upon  her  tearless  cheek,  and,  murmuring,  said, 

"  How  strange  that  he  should  be  so  lightly  mourn'd." 


102  THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 

Oh  woman,  oft  misconstrued !  the  pure  pearls 

Lie  all  too  deep  in  thy  heart's  secret  well, 

For  the  unpausing  and  impatient  hand 

To  win  them  forth.     In  that  meek  maiden's  breast 

Sorrow  and  loneliness  sank  darkly  down, 

Though  the  hlanch'd  lips  breath'd  out  no  boisterous  plaint 

Of  common  grief. 

Even  on  to  life's  decline, 

Through  all  the  giddy  round  of  prosperous  years, 
The  birth  of  new  affections,  and  the  joys 
That  cluster  round  earth's  favorites,  there  walk'd 
Still  at  her  side,  the  image  of  her  sire, 
As  in  that  hour,  when  his  cold,  glazing  eye 
Met  hers,  and  knew  her  not.     When  her  full  cup 
Perchance  had  foam'd  with  pride,  that  icy  glance 
Checking  its  effervescence,  taught  her  soul 
The  chasten'd  wisdom  of  attemper'd  bliss. 


103 


THE  HAPPY  FARMER. 


SAW  ye  the  fanner  at  his  plough 

As  you  were  riding  by  ? 
Or  wearied  'neath  his  noon-day  toil, 

When  summer  suns  were  high  ? 
And  thought  you  that  his  lot  was  hard  ? 

And  did  you  thank  your  God, 
That  you,  and  yours,  were  not  condemn'd 

Thus  like  a  slave  to  plod  ? 

Come,  see  him  at  his  harvest  home, 

When  garden,  field,  and  tree, 
Conspire,  with  flowing  stores  to  fill 

His  barn,  and  granary. 
His  healthful  children  gaily  sport, 

Amid  the  new-mown  hay, 
Or  proudly  aid,  with  vigorous  arm, 

His  task,  as  best  they  may. 

The  dog  partakes  his  master's  joy, 
And  guards  the  loaded  wain, 


104  THE  HAPPY  FARMER 

The  feathery  people  clap  their  wings, 
And  lead  their  youngling  train. 

Perchance,  the  hoary  grandsire's  eye 
The  glowing  scene  surveys, 

And  breathes  a  blessing  on  his  race 
Or  guides  their  evening  praise. 

The  Harvest-Giver  is  their  friend, 

The  Maker  of  the  soil, 
And  Earth,  the  Mother,  gives  them  bread 

And  cheers  their  patient  toil. 
Come,  join  them  round  their  wintry  hearth, 

Their  heartfelt  pleasures  see, 
And  you  can  better  judge  how  blest 

The  farmer's  life  may  be. 


A  COTTxlGE  SCENE. 


I  SAW  a  cradle  at  a  cottage  door, 
Where  the  fair  mother,  with  her  cheerful  wheel, 
Carolled  so  sweet  a  song,  that  the  young  bird, 
Which,  timid,  near  the  threshold  sought  for  seeds, 
Paused  on  its  lifted  foot,  and  raised  its  head, 
As  if  to  listen.     The  rejoicing  bees 
Nestled  in  throngs  amid  the  wood-bine  cups 
That  o'er  the  lattice  clustered.     A  clear  stream 
Came  leaping  from  its  sylvan  height,  and  poured 
Music  upon  the  pebbles,  and  the  winds 
Which  gently  'mid  the  vernal  branches  played 
Their  i'dle  freaks,  brought  showering  blossoms  down, 
Surfeiting  earth  with  sweetness. 

Sad  I  came 

From  weary  commerce  with  the  heartless  world ; 
But  when  I  felt  upon  my  withered  cheek 
My  mother  Nature's  breath,  and  heard  the  trump 
Of  those  gay  insects  at  their  honied  toil, 
Shining  like  winged  jewelry,  and  drank 
The  healthful  odor  of  the  flowering  trees 


106  A  COTTAGE  SCENE. 

And  bright-eyed  violets  ;  but,  most  of  all, 

When  I  beheld  mild  slumbering  innocence, 

And  on  that  young  maternal  brow  the  smile 

Of  those  affections  which  do  purify 

And  renovate  the  soul,  I  turned  me  back 

In  gladness,  and  with  added  strength,  to  run 

My  weary  race — lifting  a  thankful  prayer 

To  Him  who  showed  me  some  bright  tints  of  Heaven 

Here  on  the  earth,  that  I  might  safer  walk 

And  firmer  combat  sin,  and  surer  rise 

From  earth  to  Heaven. 


107 


ROSE  TO  THE  DEAD. 


I  PLUCK'D  a  rose  for  thee,  sweet  friend, 

Thy  ever  favorite  flower, 
A  bud  I  long  had  nurs'd  for  thee, 

Within  my  wintry  bower; 
I  group'd  it  with  the  fragrant  leaves 

That  on  the  myrtle  grew, 
And  tied  it  with  a  silken  string 

Of  soft  cerulean  blue. 

I  brought  them  all  to  thee,  sweet  friend, 

And  stood  beside  the  chair, 
Where  sickness  long  thy  step  had  chain'd, 

But  yet  thou  wert  not  there ; 
I  turn'd  me  to  thy  curtainM  bed, 

So  fair  with  snowy  lawn, 
Methought  the  unpress'd  pillow  said 

"  Not  here,  but  risen  and  gone." 

Thy  book  of  prayer  lay  open  wide, 
And  'mid  its  leaves  were  seen, 


1C8  ROSE  TO  THE  DEAD. 

A  flower  with  petals  shrunk  and  dried, 
Lost  Summer's  wither'd  queen. 

It  was  a  flower  I  gave  thee,  friend, 
Thou  lov'dst  it  for  my  sake ; 

"  See  here  a  fresher  one  I  bring," 
No  lip  in  answer  spake. 

Then  from  the  sofa's  quiet  side 

I  rais'd  the  covering  rare, 
"  Sleepest  thou  ?"  upon  the  forehead  lay 

Unstirr'd  the  auburn  hair  : 
But  when  to  leave  my  cherish'd  gift, 

That  gentle  hand  I  stole, 
Its  icy  touch !  its  fearful  chill, 

Congeal'd  my  inmost  soul. 

Ah  friend,  dear  friend  !  and  can  it  be 

Thy  last  sweet  word  is  said  ? 
That  all  too  late  my  token  comes, 

To  cheer  the  pulseless  dead  ? 
Here,  on  thy  cold  unheaving  breast, 

The  promis'd  Rose  I  lay, 
The  last,  poor  symbol  of  a  love 

That  cannot  fade  away. 

But  thou,  'mid  yon  perennial  bowers 
Where  angel  footsteps  roam, 


ROSE  TO  THE  DEAD.  109 

Among  the  ever-fragrant  flowers 

That  deck  the  spirit's  home, 
Rememberest  thou  the  mourning  friend, 

Who  nightly  weeps  for  thee  ? 
And  wilt  thou  pluck  a  thornless  rose 

And  keep  it  safe  for  me  ? 


110 


BURIAL   OF  TWO  YOUNG  SISTERS, 

THE  ONLY  CHILDREN  OF  THEIR  PARENTS. 


THEY'RE  here,  in  this  turf-bed — those  tender  forms, 
So  kindly  cherishM,  and  so  fondly  loved, 
They^re  here. 

Sweet  sisters !  pleasant  in  their  lives 
And  not  in  death  divided.     Sure  'tis  meet 
That  blooming  ones  should  linger  here  and  learn 
How  quick  the  transit  to  the  silent  tomb. 
I  do  remember  them,  their  pleasant  brows 
So  mark'd  with  pure  affections,  and  the  glance 
Of  their  mild  eyes,  when,  in  the  house  of  God, 
They  gathered  up  the  manna,  that  distill'd, 
Like  dew,  around. 

The  eldest,  parted  first, 
And  it  was  touching  even  to  tears,  to  see 
The  perfect  meekness  of  that  child-like  soul, 
Turning  'mid  sorrow's  chastening  to  its  God, 
And  loosening  every  link  of  earthly  hope, 
To  gird  an  angel's  glorious  garments  on. 
The  younger  lingered  yet  a  little  while, 


BURIAL  OF  TWO  YOUNG  SISTERS.  Ill 

Drooping  and  beautiful.     Strongly  the  nerve 
Of  that  lone  spirit  clasped  its  parent-prop : 
Yet  still  in  timid  tenderness  embraced 
The  Rock  of  Ages — while  the  Saviour's  voice 
Confirmed  its  trust :  "  Suffer  the  little  ones 
To  come  to  me." 

And  then  her  sister's  couch 
Undrew  its  narrow  covering — and  those  forms, 
Which  side  by  side,  on  the  same  cradle- bed, 
So  oft  had  shared  the  sleep  of  infancy, 
Were  laid  on  that  clay  pillow,  cheek  to  cheek 
And  hand  to  hand,  until  that  morning  break, 
Which  hath  no  night. 

And  ye  are  left  alone, 

Who  nurtured  those  fair  buds,  and  often  said 
Unto  each  other,  in  the  hour  of  care, 
"  These  same  shall  comfort  us  for  all  our  toil." 
Yes,  ye  are  left  alone.     It  is  not  ours 
To  heal  such  wound.     Man  hath  too  weak  a  hand, 
All  he  can  give,  is  tears. 

But  he  who  took 

Your  treasures  to  his  keeping:  He  hath  power 
To  bear  you  onward  to  that  better  land, 
Where  none  are  written  childless,  and  torn  hearts 
Blend  in  a  full  eternity  of  bliss. 
10 


AUTUMN. 


HAS  it  come,  the  time  to  fade? 

And  with  a  murmur'd  sigh, 
The  Maple,  in  his  scarlet  robe, 

Was  the  first  to  make  reply ; 
And  the  queenly  Dahlias  droop'd 

Upon  their  thrones  of  state, 
The  frost-king,  with  his  baleful  kiss. 

Had  well  forestalled  their  fate. 

Hydrangia,  on  her  telegraph 

A  hurried  signal  trac'd 
Of  dire  and  dark  conspiracy 

That  Summer's  realm  menac'd} 
Then  quick  the  proud  exotic  peerss 

In  consternation  fled, 
And  refuge  in  their  green-house  sought 

Before  the  day  of  dread. 

The  vine  that  o'er  my  casement  climb'd 
And  cluster'd  day  by  day, 


AUTUMN  113 

I  count  its  leaflets  every  morn, 

See,  how  they  fade  away; 
And,  as  they  withering  one  by  one 

Forsake  their  parent  tree. 
I  call  each  sere  and  yellow  leaf, 

A  buried  friend  to  me. 

Put  on  thy  mourning,  said  my  soul, 

And  with  a  tearful  eye, 
Walk  softly  'mid  the  many  graves, 

Where  thy  companions  lie. 
The  violet,  like  a  loving  babe, 

When  vernal  suns  were  new, 
That  met  thee  with  a  soft,  blue  eye, 

And  lips  all  bath'd  in  dew, 

The  lily,  as  a  timid  bride, 

While  summer  suns  were  fair, 
That  put  her  snowy  hand  in  thine, 

To  bless  thee  for  thy  care, 
The  trim  and  proud  anemone, 

The  daisy  from  the  vale, 
The  purple  lilac  towering  high 

To  guard  his  sister  pale, 

The  ripen'd  rose,  where  are  they  now? 
But  from  the  rifled  bower 


114 


AUTUMN. 

A  voice  came  forth  "  take  heed  to  note 

Thine  own  receding  hour, 
And  let  the  strange  and  silver  hair 

That  o'er  thy  forehead  strays 
Be  as  a  monitor,  to  tell 

The  autumn  of  thy  days." 


115 


THE  LAST  SUPPER. 

A  PICTURE  BY  LEONARDI  DA  VINCI. 


BEHOLD  that  countenance,  where  grief  and  love 
Blend  with  ineffable  benignity, 
And  deep,  unuttered  majesty  divine. 

Whose  is  that  eye  which  seems  to  read  the  heart, 
And  yet  to  have  shed  the  tear  of  mortal  woe  ? 
Redeemer!  is  it  thine?     And  is  this  feast, 
Thy  last  on  earth  ?     Why  do  the  chosen  few, 
Admitted  to  thy  parting  banquet,  stand 
As  men  transfix'd  with  horror? 

Ah!  I  hear 

The  appalling  answer,  from  those  lips  divine, 
"One  of  you  shall  betray  me." 

One  of  these? 

Who  by  thy  hand  was  nurtured,  heard  thy  prayers, 
Received  thy  teachings,  as  the  thirsty  plant 
Turns  to  the  rain  of  summer  ?     One  of  these ! 
Therefore,  with  deep  and  deadly  paleness  droops 
10* 


116  THE  LAST  SUPPER. 

The  loved  disciple,  as  if  life's  warm  spring 

Chilled  to  the  ice  of  death,  at  such  strange  shock 

Of  unimagined  guilt.     See,  his  whole  soul 

Concentred  in  his  eye,  the  man  who  walked 

The  waves  with  Jesus,  all  impetuous  prompts 

The  horror  struck  inquiry — "  Is  it  I  ? 

Lord !  is  it  I  ?"  while  earnest  pressing  near, 

His  brother's  lip,  in  ardent  echo  seems 

Doubling  the  fearful  thought.     With  brow  upraised, 

Andrew  absolves  his  soul  of  charge  so  foul ; 

And  springing  eager  from  the  table's  foot, 

Bartholomew  bends  forward,  full  of  hope, 

That  by  his  ear,  the  Master's  awful  words 

Had  been  misconstrued.     To  the  side  of  Christ, 

James,  in  the  warmth  of  cherished  friendship  clings, 

Yet  trembles  as  the  traitor's  image  steals 

Into  his  throbbing  heart ;  while  he,  whose  hand 

In  sceptic  doubt  was  soon  to  probe  the  wounds 

Of  him  he  loved,  points  upward  to  invoke 

The  avenging  God.     Philip,  with  startled  gaze, 

Stands  in  his  crystal  singleness  of  soul, 

Attesting  innocence — while  Matthew's  voice, 

Repeating  fervently  the  Master's  words, 

Rouses  to  agony  the  listening  group, 

Who,  half  incredulous,  with  terror,  seem 

To  shudder  at  his  accents. 

All  the  twelve 
With  strong  emotion  strive,  save  one  false  breast 


THE  LAST  SAPPER.  117 

By  Mammon  seared,  which,  brooding  o'er  its  gain, 
Weighs  thirty  pieces  with  the  Saviour's  blood. 
Son  of  perdition  ! — dost  thou  freely  breathe 
In  such  pure  atmosphere  ? — And  canst  thou  hide, 
"Neath  the  cold  calmness  of  that  settled  brow, 
The  burden  of  a  deed  whose  very  name 
Strikes  all  thy  brethren  pale? 

But  can  it  be 

That  the  strange  power  of  this  soul-harrowing  scene 
Is  the  slight  pencil's  witchery  ? — I  would  speak 
Of  him  who  pour'd  such  bold  conception  forth 
O'er  the  dead  canvass.     But  I  dare  not  muse, 
Now  of  a  mortal's  praise.     Subdued  I  stand 
In  thy  sole,  sorrowing  presence,  Son  of  God — 
I  feel  the  breathing  of  those  holy  men, 
From  whom  thy  gospel,  as  on  angel's  wing, 
Went  out  through  all  the  earth.     I  see  how  deep 
Sin  in  the  soul  may  lurk,  and  fain  would  kneel 
Low  at  thy  blessed  feet,  and  trembling  ask — 
"Lord!— is  it  I?" 

For  who  may  tell,  what  dregs 
Do  slumber  in  his  breast.     Thou,  who  didst  taste 
Of  man's  infirmities,  yet  bar  his  sins 
From  thine  unspotted  soul,  forsake  us  not 
In  our  temptations ;  but  so  guide  our  feet, 
That  our  Last  Supper  in  this  world  may  lead 
To  that  immortal  banquet  by  thy  side, 
Where  there  is  no  betrayer. 


118 
WASHINGTON'S   TOMB. 

ADAPTED  TO  MUSIC. 


TOMB  of  the  mighty  dead ! 
How  sacred  every  tree, 
Waving  above  thy  head, 

Or  shedding  bloom  on  thee : 
As  long  as  fair  Potomac  flows, 
Sparkling  'neath  Mount  Vernon's  sun, 
Rever'd  by  friends  and  foes 
Dwell  here,  in  blest  repose, 
Washington ! 

Sons  of  the  pilgrim  sires, 

Sons  of  yon  boundless  west, 
Ye,  whom  the  tropic  fires, 

Or  hoarse  lakes  lull  to  rest, 
If  wandering  wide,  you  e'er  forget 
Ties  that  bind  us  all  in  one, 
Here,  at  your  father's  feet, 
The  brothers'  vow  repeat, 
While  the  breeze  respondeth  sweet, 
Washington ! 


WASHINGTON'S  TOMB.  119 

He,  of  Helena's  rock 

Hath  an  enduring  name, 
Echoed  in  battle  shock, 

Sculptured  with  blood  and  flame  : 
But,  when  the  mother  at  her  knee 
Whispereth  to  her  cradled  son 
The  alphabet  of  liberty, 
Will  he  not  lisp  of  thee, 
Washington  ? 

Should  baleful  Discord  steal 

Our  patriot  strength  away, 
Or  fierce  Invasion's  zeal 

Recal  old  Bunker's  day, 
Or  mad  Disunion  smite  the  tree 

Nurs'd  so  long  in  Glory's  sun, 

Mount  Vernon's  tomb  shall  be 

The  watch-word  of  the  free, 

Guiding  their  hearts  to  thee, 
Washington ! 


120 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PASTOR. 


I  DO  remember  him.     His  saintly  voice, 
So  duly  lifted  in  the  house  of  God, 
Comes,  with  the  far  off  wing  of  infant  years, 
Like  solemn  music.     Often  have  we  hush'd 
The  shrillest  echo  of  our  holiday, 
Turning  our  mirth  to  reverence  as  he  pass'd, 
And  eager  to  record  one  favoring  smile, 
Or  word  paternal. 

At  the  bed  of  death 

I  do  remember  him ;  when  one,  who  bore 
For  me  a  tender  love,  did  feel  that  pang 
Which  makes  the  features  rigid — and  the  eye 
Like  a  fix'd  glassy  orb.     Her  head  was  white 
With  many  winters — but  her  furrow'd  brow 
To  me  was  beautiful — for  she  had  cheer'd 
My  lonely  childhood  with  a  changeless  stream 
Of  pure  benevolence.     His  earnest  tone, 
Girding  her  from  the  armory  of  God 
To  foil  the  terrors  of  that  shadowy  vale 
Through  which  she  walk'd,  doth  linger  round  me  still 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PASTOR.  12  \ 

And  by  that  gush  of  bitter  tears,  when  first 

Grief  came  into  my  bosom — by  that  thrill 

Of  agony,  which  from  the  open  grave 

Hose  wildly  forth — I  do  remember  him, 

The  comforter  and  friend. 

When  Fancy's  smile 

Gilding  youth's  scenes,  and  promising  to  bring 

The  curtain'd  morrow  fairer  than  to-day, 

Enkindled  wilder  gaiety  than  fits 

Beings  so  frail — how  oft  his  funeral  prayer 

Over  some  shrouded  sleeper,  made  a  pause 

In  folly's  song,  or  warn'd  her  roving  eye 

That  all  man's  glory  was  the  flower  of  grass 

Beneath  the  mower's  scythe. 

His  fourscore  years 

Sat  lightly  on  him — for  his  heart  was  glad, 

Even  to  its  latest  pulse,  with  that  fond  love, 

Home-nurtur'd  and  reciprocal,  which  girds 

And  garners  up,  in  sorrow  and  in  joy. 

— I  was  not  with  the  weepers — when  the  hearse 

Stood  all  expectant  at  his  pleasant  door, 

And  other  voices  from  his  pulpit  said 

That  he  was  not : — but  yet  the  requiem  sigh 

Of  that  sad  organ,  in  its  sable  robe, 

Made  melancholy  music  in  my  dreams. 

— And  so,  farewell,  thou  who  didst  shed  the  dew 

Baptismal  on  mine  infancy,  and  lead 

To  the  Redeemer's  sacred  board,  a  guest 


122       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PASTOR. 

Timid  and  unassur'd — yet  gathering  strength 
From  the  blest  promise  of  Jehovah's  aid 
Unto  the  early  seeker.     When  again 
My  native  spot  unfolds  that  pictur'd  chart 
Unto  mine  eye,  which  in  my  heart  I  hold, 
Rocks,  woods  and  waters  exquisitely  blent, 
Thy  cordial  welcome  I  no  more  shall  hear — 
Father  and  guide — nor  can  I  hope  to  win 
Thy  glance  from  glory's  mansion,  while  I  lay 
This  wild-flower  garland  on  thine  honor'd  tomb. 


123 


OUR  ABORIGINES 


I  HEARD  the  forests  as  they  cried 

Unto  the  valleys  green, 
"Where  is  the  red-brow'd  hunter-race, 

Who  lov'd  our  leafy  screen  ? 
Who  humbled  'mid  these  dewy  glades 

The  red  deer's  antler'd  crown, 
Or  soaring  at  his  highest  noon, 

Struck  the  strong  eagle  down." 

Then  in  the  zephyr's  voice  replied 

Those  vales,  so  meekly  blest, 
"  They  rear'd  their  dwellings  on  our  side, 

Their  corn  upon  our  breast ; 
A  blight  came  down,  a  blast  swept  by. 

The  cone-roof'd  cabins  fell, 
And  where  that  exil'd  people  fled, 

It  is  not  ours  to  tell." 

Niagara,  of  the  mountains  gray, 
Demanded,  from  his  throne, 
11 


124  OUR  ABORIGINES. 

And  old  Ontario's  billowy  lake 

Prolong'd  the  thunder  tone, 
"  The  chieftains  at  our  side  who  stood 

Upon  our  christening  day, 
Who  gave  tne  glorious  names  we  bear, 

Our  sponsors,  \vhere  are  they  ?" 

And  then  the  fair  Ohio  charg'd 

Her  many  sisters  dear, 
"  Show  me  once  more,  those  stately  forms 

Within  my  mirror  clear  j" 
But  they  replied,  "  tall  barks  of  pride 

Do  cleave  our  waters  blue, 
And  strong  keels  ride  our  farthest  tide, 

But  where's  their  light  canoe  ?" 

The  farmer  drove  his  plough-share  deep 

"  Whose  bones  are  these  ?"  said  he, 
"  I  find  them  where  my  browsing  sheep 

Roam  o'er  the  upland  lea." 
But  starting  sudden  to  his  path 

A  phantom  seem'd  to  glide, 
A  plume  of  feathers  on  his  head, 

A  quiver  at  his  side. 

He  pointed  to  the  rifled  grave 
Then  rais'd  his  hand  on  high, 


OUR  ABORIGINES.  125 

And  with  a  hollow  groan  invok'd 

The  vengeance  of  the  sky. 
O'er  the  broad  realm  so  long  his  own 

Gaz'd  with  despairing  ray, 
Then  on  the  mist  that  slowly  curl'd, 

Fled  mournfully  away. 


126 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH. 


"  Oh  Death!  how  bitter  is  the  remembrance  of  thee  to  a  man  that 
is  at  ease  in  his  possessions."—  ECCLESIASTICUS,  iv.,  1. 


THE  rich  man  moved  in  pomp.     His  soul  was  gorged 

With  the  gross  fulness  of  material  things. 

So  that  it  spread  no  pinion  forth  to  seek 

A  better  world  than  this.     There  was  a  change, 

And  in  the  sleepless  chamber  of  disease, 

Curtained  and  nursed,  and  ill-content  he  lay. 

lie  had  a  wasted  and  an  eager  look, 

And  on  the  healer's  brow  he  fixed  a  glance, 

Keen — yet  imploring. 

What  he  greatly  feared 

Had  come  upon  him.  So  he  went  his  way — 
The  way  of  all  the  earth— and  his  lands  took 
Another's  name. 

Why  dost  thou  come.  O  Deatli  f 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH.  127 

To  print  the  bridal  chamber  with  thy  foot, 
And  leave  the  ruin  of  thy  ministry, 
Where  love,  and  joy,  and  hope  so  late  had  hung 
Their  diamond  cressets  ? 

To  the  cradle  side 

Why  need'st  thou  steal,  changing  to  thine  own  hue 
Of  ghastly  pale,  the  youthful  mother's  brow ; 
And  for  her  nightly  watching,  leaving  nought 
In  mocking  payment,  but  a  form  of  clay, 
And  the  torn  heart-strings  in  her  bleeding  breast? 
— Come  to  the  aged,  he  hath  sorely  trod 
Time's  rugged  road,  until  his  staff  is  broke, 
And  his  feet  palsied,  and  his  friends  all  gone ; 
Lay  thy  cold  finger  on  life's  last  faint  spark, 
And  scarcely  gasping  he  shall  follow  thee. 
— Come  to  the  saint,  for  he  will  meekly  take 
Thy  message  to  his  soul,  and  welcome  thee 
In  Jesus'  name,  and  bless  the  shadowy  gate 
Which  thou  dost  open. 

Wait  awhile,  O  Death ! 

For  those  who  love  this  fleeting  world  too  well ; 
Wait,  till  it  force  their  hearts  to  turn  away 
From  all  its  empty  promises,  and  loathe 
Its  deep  hypocrisy.     Oh  !  wait  for  those 
Who  have  not  tasted  yet  of  Heaven's  high  grace, 
Nor  bring  them  to  their  audit,  all  unclothed 
With  a  Redeemer's  righteousness. 


ii' 


128 


THE  HOPIA  TREE. 

PLANTED  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  MRS.  ANN  H.  JUDSON 


"REST!  Rest!— the  Hopia  tree  is  green, 
And  proudly  waves  its  leafy  screen, 

Thy  lowly  bed  above, 
And  by  thy  side,  no  more  to  weep, 
Thine  infant  shares  the  gentle  sleep, 

Thy  youngest  bud  of  love. 

«  How  oft  its  feeble  wailing  cry 
DetainM  unsealM  thy  watchful  eye, 

And  pain'd  that  parting  hour 
When  pallid  death,  with  stealthy  tread, 
Descried  thee  on  thy  fever-bed, 

And  proved  his  fatal  power. 

"  Ah !  do  I  see  with  faded  charm, 
Thy  head  reclining  on  thine  arm, 
The  Teacher*  far  away  ? 

*  "  The  last  day  or  two  of  her  life,  slie  la)'  almost  motionless,  on 


THE  IIOPIA  TREE.  129 

But  now,  thy  mission-labors  o'er, 
Rest,  weary  clay,  to  wake  no  more, 
Till  the  Great  Rising-Day." 

Thus  spake  the  traveller,  as  he  staid 
His  step  within  that  sacred  shade, 

A  man  of  God  was  he, 
Who  his  Redeemer's  glory  sought, 
And  paused  to  woo  the  holy  thought 

Beneath  that  Hopia  tree. 

The  Sal  wen's  tide  went  rushing  by, 
And  Burmah's  cloudless  moon  was  high, 

With  many  a  solemn  star ; 
And  while  he  mus'd  methought  there  stole 
An  angel's  whisper  o'er  his  soul, 

From  that  pure  clime  afar, 

Where  swells  no  more  the  heathen  sigh, 
Nor  'neath  the  idol's  stony  eye 

Dark  sacrifice  is  done, 
And  where  no  more,  by  prayers  and  tears, 
And  toils  of  agonising  years, 

The  martyr's  crown  is  won. 


one  side,  her  head  reclining  on  her  arm.  Sometimes  she  said, 
'  The  teacher  is  long  in  coming,  and  the  new  missionaries  are  lor?£ 
in  coming.  I  must  die  alone.'  " — Knowles's  Memoir. 


130  THE  IIOPIA  TREE. 

Then  visions  of  the  faith  that  blest 
The  dying1  saint's  rejoicing  breast, 

And  set  the  pagan  free, 
Came  thronging  on,  serenely  bright, 
And  cheer'd  the  traveller's  heart  that  night, 

Beneath  the  Hopia  tree. 


131 


A  DOOR  OPENED  IN  HEAVEN. 


"  I  looked,  and,  behold,  a  door  was  opened  in  heaven." 
REVELATIONS,  iv.,  31. 


IT  seemed  not  as  a  dream,  and  yet  I  stood 

Beside  Heaven's  gate.     Its  mighty  valves  were  loosed, 

And  upward,  from  earth's  tribulation,  came 

A  soul,  whose  passport,  signed  in  Calvary's  blood, 

Prevailed.     Around  the  golden  threshold's  verge 

I  saw  the  dazzling  of  celestial  wings, 

Thronging  to  welcome  it.     The  towering  form 

Of  an  archangel  bore  it  company 

Up  to  God's  throne.     Soft  on  my  ear  their  tones, 

Serenely  wafted  by  ambrosial  gales, 

Fell  like  rich  music. 

"  Wherefore  didst  thou  pass 
Weeping  along  thy  pilgrimage  ?"  inquired 
The  sinless  seraph. 

"  Thorns  beset  my  path. 
I  sought  and  found  not.     I  obtained  and  mourned. 


132  A  DOOR  OPENED  IN  HEAVEN. 

1  loved  and  lost.     Ingratitude  and  Hate 
Did  whet  their  serpent  tooth  upon  my  fame. 
My  wealth  took  wing.     I  planted  seeds  of  bliss, 
And  sorrow  blossomed." 

But  the  risen  from  earth 
Faltered  to  mark  that  high  archangel's  glance 
Bent  downward  with  surprise,  as  though  it  asked — 
"Had  thy  felicity  no  deeper  root, 
Thou  sky-born  soul,  for  whom  the  Son  of  God 
Bowed  to  be  crucified  ?" 

So  when  I  saw, 

Or  dreamed  I  saw,  that  even  in  Heaven  might  dwell 
Reproof  and  penitence,  T  prayed  to  look 
Ever  upon  that  flood  of  light  which  gilds 
Each  morning  with  its  mercy,  and  whose  beams 
Are  brightened  every  moment,  and  to  bear 
God's  discipline  with  gladness;  that  no  tear 
For  trials  lost,  be  shed  beyond  the  grave. 


133 


PASSING  AWAY. 


The  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away." — 1  CORINTHIANS,  vn.,  31. 


A  ROSE  upon  her  mossy  stem, 

Fair  Queen  of  Flora's  gay  domain, 

All  graceful  wore  her  diadem, 

The  brightest  'mid  the  brilliant  train ; 

But  evening  came,  with  frosty  breath, 
And,  ere  the  quick  return  of  day, 

Her  beauties,  in  the  blight  of  death, 

Had  pass'd  away. 

I  saw,  when  morning  gemmed  the  sky, 
A  fair  young  creature  gladly  rove, 

Her  moving  lip  was  melody, 

Her  varying  smile  the  charm  of  love ; 

At  eve  I  came — but  on  her  bed 

She  drooped,  with  forehead  pale  as  clay — 

«  What  dost  thou  here  ?"— she  faintly  said, 
"  Passing  away." 


134  PASSING  AWAY. 

I  looked  on  manhood's  towering  form 
Like  some  tall  oak  when  tempests  blow, 

That  scorns  the  fury  of  the  storm 
And  strongly  strikes  its  root  below. 

Again  I  looked — with  idiot  cower 
His  vacant  eye's  unmeaning  ray 

Told  how  the  mind  of  godlike  power 
Passeth  away. 

O  earth !  no  better  wealth  hast  thou  ? 

No  balsam  for  the  heart  that  bleeds  ? 
Fade  all  thy  blossoms  on  their  bough  ? 

Fail  all  thy  props  like  bruised  reeds? 
The  soul  replied,  "  My  hopes  are  wreathM 

Around  the  bowers  of  changeless  day, 
Where  angel  tones  have  never  breath'd 

'  Passing  away.'  n 


135 


SUNSET  ON  THE  ALLEGHANY 


I  WAS  a  pensive  pilgrim  at  the  foot 

Of  the  crownM  Alleghany,  when  he  wrapp'd 

His  purple  mantle  gloriously  around, 

And  took  the  homage  of  the  princely  hills, 

And  ancient  forests,  as  they  bow'd  them  down, 

Each  in  his  order  of  nobility. 

— And  then  in  glorious  pomp,  the  sun  retir'd 

Behind  that  solemn  shadow.     And  his  train 

Of  crimson,  and  of  azure  and  of  gold 

Went  floating  up  the  zenith,  tint  on  tint, 

And  ray  on  ray,  till  all  the  concave  caught 

His  parting  benediction. 

But  the  glow 

Faded  to  twilight,  and  dim  evening  sank 
In  deeper  shade,  and  there  that  mountain  stood 
In  awful  state,  like  dread  ambassador 
'Tween  earth  and  heaven.     Methought  it  frown'd  severe 
Upon  the  world  beneath,  and  lifted  up 
The  accusing  forehead  sternly  toward  the  sky 
To  witness  'gainst  its  sins      And  is  it  meet 
12 


136  SUNSET  ON  THE  ALLEGHANY. 

For  thee,  swoln  out  in  cloud-capp'd  pinnacle, 

To  scorn  thine  own  original,  the  dust 

That,  feebly  eddying  on  the  angry  winds, 

Doth  sweep  thy  base  ?     Say,  is  it  meet  for  thee, 

Robing  thyself  in  mystery,  to  impeach 

This  nether  sphere,  from  whence  thy  rocky  root 

Draws  depth  and  nutriment  ? 

But  lo !  a  star, 

The  first  meek  herald  of  advancing  night, 
Doth  peer  above  thy  summit,  as  some  babe 
Might  gaze  with  brow  of  timid  innocence 
Over  a  giant's  shoulder.     Hail,  lone  star! 
Thou  friendly  watcher  o'er  an  erring  world, 
Thine  uncondemning  glance  doth  aptly  teach 
Of  that  untiring  mercy,  which  vouchsafes 
Thee  light,  and  man  salvation. 

Not  to  mark 

And  treasure  up  his  follies,  or  recount 
Their  secret  record  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 
Thou  com'st.     Methinks,  thy  tenderness  would  shroud 
With  trembling  mantle,  his  infirmities. 
The  purest  natures  are  most  pitiful. 
But  they  who  feel  corruption  strong  within, 
Do  launch  their  darts  most  fiercely  at  the  trace 
Of  their  own  image,  in  another's  breast. 
— So  the  wild  bull,  that  in  some  mirror  spies 
His  own  mad  visage,  furiously  destroys 
The  frail  reflector.     But  thou,  stainless  star ! 


SUNSET  ON  THE  ALLEOHANY.  137 

Shalt  stand  a  watchman  on  Creation's  walls, 
While  race  on  race,  their  little  circles  mark, 
And  slumber  in  the  tomb.     Still  point  to  all, 
Who  through  this  evening  scene  may  wander  on. 
And  from  yon  mountain's  cold  magnificence 
Turn  to  thy  milder  beauty,  point  to  all, 
The  eternal  love  that  nightly  sends  thee  forth, 
A  silent  teacher  of  its  boundless  lore. 


138 


CONTENTMENT. 


' '  Is  that  beast  better  that  hath  two  or  three  mountains  to  graze  on, 
than  a  little  bee  that  feeds  on  dew  or  manna,  and  lives  upon  what 
falls  every  morning  from  the  storehouses  of  heaven,  clouds,  and 
providence  ?  Can  a  man  quench  his  thirst  better  out  of  a  river  than 
a  full  urn ;  or  drink  better  from  the  fountain  which  is  finely  paved 
with  marble,  than  when  it  swells  over  the  green  turf?" 

BISHOP  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 


THINK' ST  thou  the  steed  that  restless  roves 
O'er  rocks  and  mountains,  fields  and  groves, 

With  wild,  unbridled  bound, 
Finds  fresher  pasture  than  the  bee, 
On  thymy  bank,  or  vernal  tree, 
Intent  to  store  her  industry, 

Within  her  waxen  round  ? 

Think'st  thou  the  fountain  forc'd  to  turn 
Thro'  marble  vase,  or  sculptur'd  urn, 

Affords  a  sweeter  draught, 
Than  that  which  in  its  native  sphere, 


CONTENTMENT.  139 

Perennial,  undisturb'd  and  clear, 
Flows,  the  lone  traveller's  thirst  to  cheer, 
And  wake  his  grateful  thought  ? 

Think'st  thou  the  man  whose  mansions  hold 
The  worldling's  pomp,  and  miser's  gold, 

Obtains  a  richer  prize, 
Than  he  who  in  his  cot  at  rest, 
Finds  heavenly  peace,  a  willing  guest, 
And  bears  the  promise  in  his  breast 

Of  treasure  in  the  skies  ? 


140 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SISTER  WHILE 
ABSENT  AT  SCHOOL.* 


SWEET  Sister!  is  it  so?     And  shall  I  see 
Thy  face  on  earth  no  more  ?     And  didst  thou  breathe 
The  last  sad  pang  of  agonising  life 
Upon  a  stranger's  pillow  ?     No  kind  hand, 
Of  parent  or  of  kindred  near,  to  press 
Thy  throbbing  temples,  when  the  shuddering  dew 
Stood  thick  upon  them  ?     And  they  say  my  name 
Hung  on  thy  lips  'mid  the  chill,  parting  strife. 
Ah ! — those  were  hallowed  memories  that  could  stir 
Thy  bosom  thus  in  death.     The  tender  song 
Of  cradle-nurture — the  low,  lisping  prayer, 
Learned  at  our  mother's  knee — the  childish  sport, 
The  gift  divided,  and  the  parted  cake — 
Our  walk  to  school  amid  the  dewy  grass — 
Our  sweet  flower-gatherings — all  those  cloudless  hours 
Together  shared,  did  wake  a  love  so  strong 
That  Time  must  yield  it  to  Eternity 
For  its  full  crown.     Would  it  had  been  my  lot 
But  with  one  weeping  prayer  to  gird  thy  heart 
*  Written  at  the  request  of  her  bereaved  brother. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SISTER.  141 

For  its  last  conflict.     Would  that  I  had  seen 

That  peaceful  smile  which  Death  did  leave  thy  clay 

After  his  conquest  o'er  it.     But  the  turf 

On  thy  lone  grave  was  trodden,  while  1  deemed 

Thee  meekly  musing  o'er  the  classic  page, 

Loving  and  loved,  amid  the  studious  band 

As  erst  I  left  thee. 

Sister ! — toils  and  ills 

Henceforth  are  past — for  knowledge  without  pain, 
A  free  translucent,  everlasting  tide, 
(yerfiows  thy  spirit.     Thou  no  more  hast  need 
Of  man's  protecting  arm,  for  thou  may'st  lean 
On  His  unchanging  throne  who  was  thy  trust, 
Even  from  thine  early  days. 

'Tis  well !  'tis  well ! 
Saviour  of  souls !  I  thank  thee  for  her  bliss. 


142 


THE  RIGHTEOUS  DEAD 


YON  pilgrim  see,  in  vestments  gray, 
Whose  bleeding  feet  bedew  his  way, 
O'er  arid  sands,  with  want  opprest, 
Who,  toiling,  knows  no  place  of  rest  : 
Mourn  ye,  because  the  long-sought  shrine 
He  clasps  in  ecstacy  divine, 
And  lays  his  load  of  sin  and  gloom 
Repentant  on  a  Saviour's  tomb  ? 
— Behold  yon  ship,  with  wrecking  form 
Her  proud  masts  quivering  to  the  storm, 
Rude  winds  and  waves  with  headlong  force 
Impel  her  on  her  dangerous  course; 
The  pallid  crew  their  hope  resign, 
And  powerless  view  the  surging  brine : 
Mourn  ye,  because  the  tempest  dies, 
And  in  the  haven  moor'd  she  lies  ? 
— Emerging  from  the  field  of  strife 
Where  slaughter'd  thousands  waste  their  life, 
Yon  warrior  see,  with  gushing  veins, 
Who  scarce  his  frantic  steed  restrains ; 


THE  RIGHTEOUS  DEAD.  143 

The  death-mist  swims  before  his  eyes 

As  toward  the  well  known  spot  he  flies, 

Where  every  fond  affection  lies. 

Mourn  ye,  because  to  home  restor'd, 

Woman's  white  arms  enwrap  her  lord, 

And  tears  and  smiles  with  varying  grace 

Fleet  o'er  his  cherub  children's  face  ? 

— Yet  on  his  path  of  toil  and  woe, 

The  pilgrim  from  his  shrine  must  go, 

The  ship  amid  the  billows  strain, 

The  warrior  seek  the  war  again : 

But  he,  whose  form  to  death  has  bow'd, 

Whose  spirit  cleaves  the  ethereal  cloud, 

From  him  hath  change  and  sorrow  fled, 

— Why  mourn  ye,  then,  the  righteous  dead  < 


144 


JOY  IN  BELIEVING. 


God  desireth  to  have  no  slaves  in  his  family." — REV.  DR.  HA  WES 


MAN  asketh  homage.    When  his  foot  doth  stand 

On  earth's  high  places,  he  exacteth  fear 

From  those  who  serve  him.     His  proud  spirit  loves 

The  quick  observance  of  an  abject  eye 

And  cowering  brow.     His  dignity,  he  deems, 

Demands  such  aliment — and  he  doth  show 

Its  evanescence,  by  the  food  he  seeks 

To  give  it  nutriment.     Yea,  more  than  this — 

He  o'er  his  brother  rules,  with  scourge  and  chain, 

Treading  out  Nature's  charities,  till  life 

To  madness  tortur'd,  or  in  misery  crush 'd, 

Goes,  an  accusing  spirit,  back  to  God. 

—But  He,  the  Eternal  Ruler,  willeth  not 

The  slavery  of  the  soul.     His  claim  is  love, 

A  filial  spirit,  and  a  song  of  praise. 

It  doth  not  please  him,  that  his  servants  wear 


JOY  IN  BELIEVING.  145 

The  livery  of  mourning.     Peace  is  sown 
Along  their  pilgrim  path — and  holy  hopes 
Like  birds  of  Paradise,  do  sweetly  pour 
Melodious  measures — and  a  glorious  faith 
Springs  up  o'er  Jordan's  wave.     Say,  is  it  meet 
For  those  who  wear  a  Saviour's  badge,  to  sigh 
In  heathen  heaviness,  when  earthly  joys 
Quench  their  brief  taper  ?  or  go  shrinking  down 
As  to  a  dungeon,  when  the  gate  of  Death 
Opes  its  low  valve,  to  show  the  shining  track 
Up  to  an  angel's  heritage  of  bliss  ? 


146 


INDIAN  GIRL'S  BURIAL. 


"  In  tne  vicinity  of  Montrose,  Wisconsin  Territory,  the  only 
daughter  of  an  Indian  woman  of  the  Sac  tribe,  died  of  lingering 
consumption,  a;  the  age  of  eighteen.  A  few  of  her  own  race,  and 
a  few  of  the  pale-faces  were  at  the  grave,  but  none  wept,  save  the 
poor  mother." — HERALD  OF  THE  UPPER  MISSISSIPPI. 


A  VOICE  upon  the  prairies 

A  cry  of  woman's  woe. 
That  mingleth  with  the  autumn  blast 

All  fitfully  and  low  ; 
It  is  a  mother's  wailing ; 

Hath  earth  another  tone 
Like  that  with  which  a  mother  mourns 

Her  lost,  her  only  one  ? 

Pale  faces  gather  round  her, 

They  mark'd  the  storm  swell  high 

That  rends  and  wrecks  the  tossing  soul, 
But  their  cold,  blue  eyes  are  dry. 


INblAN  GIRL'S  BURIAL.  147 

Pale  faces  gaze  upon  her, 

As  the  wild  winds  caught  her  moan, 
But  she  was  an  Indian  mother, 

So  she  wept  her  tears  alone. 

Long  o'er  that  wasted  idol, 

She  watch'd,  and  toil'd,  and  pray'd, 
Though  every  dreary  dawn  reveal'd 

Some  ravage  Death  had  made, 
Till  the  fleshless  sinews  started, 

And  hope  no  opiate  gave, 
And  hoarse,  and  hollow  grew  her  voice, 

An  echo  from  the  grave. 

She  was  a  gentle  creature, 

Of  raven  eye  and  tress, 
And  dove-like  were  the  tones  that  breath'd 

Her  bosom's  tenderness, 
Save  when  some  quick  emotion, 

The  warm  blood  strongly  sent. 
To  revel  in  her  olive-cheek 

So  richly  eloquent. 

I  said  Consumption  smote  her, 

And  the  healer's  art  was  vain, 
But  she  was  an  Indian  maiden, 

So  none  deplor'd  her  pain ; 

13 


148  INDIAN  GIRL'S  BURIAL. 

None,  save  that  widow'd  mother, 

Who  now  by  her  open  tomb, 
Is  writhing  like  the  smitten  wretch 

Whom  judgment  marks  for  doom. 

Alas !  that  lowly  cabin, 

That  bed  beside  the  wall, 
That  seat  beneath  the  mantling  vine, 

They're  lone  and  empty  all. 
What  hand  shall  pluck  the  tall,  green  corn 

That  ripeneth  on  the  plain  ? 
Since  she  for  whom  the  board  was  spread 

Must  ne'er  return  again. 

Rest,  rest,  thou  Indian  maiden, 

Nor  let  thy  murmuring  shade 
Grieve  that  those  pale-brow'd  ones  wim  scorn 

Thy  burial  rite  survey 'd ; 
There's  many  a  king  whose  funeral 

A  black-rob'd  realm  shall  see, 
For  whom  no  tear  of  grief  is  shed 

Like  that  which  falls  for  thee. 

Yea,  rest  thee,  forest  maiden ! 

Beneath  thy  native  tree ; 
The  proud  may  boast  their  little  day 

Then  sink  to  dust  like  thee : 


INDIAN  GIRL  S  BURIAL.  149 

But  there's  many  a  one  whose  funeral 

With  nodding  plumes  may  be, 
Whom  nature  nor  affection  mourn, 

As  here  they  mourn  for  thee. 


150 


THE  LOST  DARLING. 


SHE  was  my  idol.     Night  and  day,  to  scan 
The  fine  expansion  of  her  form,  and  mark 
The  unfolding  mind,  like  vernal  rose-bud,  start 
To  sudden  beauty,  was  my  chief  delight. 
To  find  her  fairy  footsteps  following  mine, 
Her  hand  upon  my  garments,  or  her  lip 
Long  sealed  to  mine,  and  in  the  watch  of  night 
The  quiet  breath  of  innocence  to  feel 
Soft  on  my  cheek,  was  such  a  full  content 
Of  happiness,  as  none  but  mothers  know. 

Her  voice  was  like  some  tiny  harp  that  yields 
To  the  slight  fingered  breeze,  and  as  it  held 
Brief  converse  with  her  doll,  or  playful  soothed 
The  moaning  kitten,  or  with  patient  care 
Conned  o'er  the  alphabet — but  most  of  all, 
Its  tender  cadence  in  her  evening  prayer 
Thrilled  on  the  ear  like  some  ethereal  tone 
Heard  in  sweet  dreams. 

But  now  alone  I  sit, 
Musing  of  her,  and  dew  with  mournful  tears 


THE  LOST  DARLING. 


1/51 


Her  little  robes,  that  once  with  woman's  pride 
I  wrought,  as  if  there  were  a  need  to  deck 
What  God  hath  made  so  beautiful.     I  start, 
Half  fancying  from  her  empty  crib  there  comes 
A  restless  sound,  and  breathe  the  accustomed  words 
tt  Hush !  Hush  thee,  dearest."     Then  I  bend  and  weep — 
As  though  it  were  a  sin  to  speak  to  one 
Whose  home  is  with  the  angels. 

Gone  to  God! 

And  yet  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  the  pang 
That  wrung  her  features,  nor  the  ghastly  white 
Settling  around  her  lips.     I  would  that  Heaven 
Had  taken  its  own,  like  some  transplanted  flower 
Blooming  in  all  its  freshness. 

Gone  to  God ! 

Be  still,  my  heart!  what  could  a  mother's  prayer, 
In  all  the  wildest  ecstacies  of  hope, 
Ask  for  its  darling  like  the  bliss  of  Heaven  ? 


152 


BARZILLAI  THE  GILEAD1TE. 


"  Let  me  be  buried  by  the  grave  of  my  father  and  of  my  mother." 
2  SAIIUEL,  xix.,  37. 


SON  of  Jesse  ! — let  me  go, 

Why  should  princely  honors  stay  me  ? — 
Where  the  streams  of  Gilead  flow, 
Where  the  light  first  met  mine  eye, 
Thither  would  I  turn  and  die ; — 
Where  my  parent's  ashes  lie, 

King  of  Israel ! — bid  them  lay  me. 

Bury  me  near  my  sire  revered, 
Whose  feet  in  righteous  paths  so  firmly  trod, 
Who  early  taught  my  soul  with  awe 
To  heed  the  Prophets  and  the  Law, 
And  to  my  infant  heart  appeared 

Majestic  as  a  God : — 
Oh !  when  his  sacred  dust 
The  cerements  of  the  tomb  shall  burst, 


BARZILLAI  THE  OILEADITE.  1/53 

Might  I  be  worthy  at  his  feet  to  rise, 

To  yonder  blissful  skies, 
Where  angel-hosts  resplendent  shine, 
Jehovah ! — Lord  of  Hosts,  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Cold  age  upon  my  breast 
Hath  shed  a  frost  like  death, 

The  wine-cup  hath  no  zest, 
The  rose  no  fragrant  breath ; 
Music  from  my  ear  hath  fled, 

Yet  still  one  sweet  tone  lingereth  there, 
The  blessing  that  my  mother  shed 
Upon  my  evening  prayer. 
Dim  is  my  wasted  eye 
To  all  that  beauty  brings, 
The  brow  of  grace — the  form  of  symmetry 

Are  half-forgotten  things ; — 
Yet  one  bright  hue  is  vivid  still, 
A  mother's  holy  smile,  that  soothed  my  sharpest  ill. 

Memory,  with  traitor-tread 

Methinks,  doth  steal  away 
Treasures  that  the  mind  had  laid 

Up  for  a  wintry  day. 
Images  of  sacred  power, 
Cherished  deep  in  passion's  hour, 

Faintly  now  my  bosom  stir, 
Good  and  evil  like  a  dream 


154  BARZILLAI  THE  GILEADITE. 

Half  obscured  and  shadowy  seem, 
Yet  with  a  changeless  love  my  soul  remembereth  her, 

Yea — it  remembereth  her : 
Close  by  her  blessed  side,  make  ye  my  sepulchre. 


156 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY 


BRILLIANT  and  beautiful ! — And  can  it  be 
That  in  thy  radiant  eye  there  dwells  no  light — • 
Upon  thy  lips  no  sound  ? — I  little  deemed 
At  our  last  parting,  when  thy  cheering  voice 
Breathed  the  soul's  harmony,  what  shadowy  form 
Then  rose  between  us,  and  with  icy  dart 
Wrote,  "  Ye  shall  meet  no  more."     I  little  deemed 
That  thy  elastic  step,  Death's  darkened  vale 
Would  tread  before  me. 

Friend,  I  shrink  to  say 

Farewell  to  thee.     In  youth's  unclouded  morn, 
We  gaze  on  friendship  as  a  graceful  flower, 
And  win  it  for  our  pleasure,  or  our  pride. 
But  when  the  stern  realities  of  life 
Do  clip  the  wings  of  fancy,  and  cold  storms 
Rack  the  worn  cordage  of  the  heart,  it  breathes 
A  healing  essence,  and  a  strengthening  charm, 
Next  to  the  hope  of  heaven.     Such  was  thy  love, 
Departed  and  deplored.     Talents  were  thine, 
Lofty  and  bright,  the  subtle  shaft  of  wit, 


156  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

And  that  keen  glance  of  intellect  which  reads, 

Intuitive,  the  deep  and  mazy  springs 

Of  human  action.     Yet  such  meek  regard 

For  other's  feelings,  such  a  simple  grace 

And  singleness  of  purpose,  such  respect 

To  woman's  noiseless  duties,  sweetly  bow'd, 

And  tempered  those  high  gifts,  that  every  heart, 

Which  feared  their  splendor,  loved  their  goodness  too. 

I  see  thy  home  of  birth.     Its  pleasant  halls 

Put  on  the  garb  of  mourning.     Sad  and  lone 

Are  they  who  nursed  thy  virtues,  and  beheld 

Their  bright  expansion  through  each  ripening  year. 

To  them  the  sacred  name  of  daughter,  blent 

All  images  of  comforter  and  friend, 

The  fire-side  charmer,  and  the  nurse  of  pain, 

Eyes  to  the  blind,  and,  to  the  weary,  wings. 

What  shall  console  their  sorrow,  when  young  morn 

Upriseth  in  its  beauty,  but  no  smile 

Of  filial  love  doth  mark  it  ? — or  when  eve 

Sinks  down  in  silence,  and  that  tuneful  tone, 

So  long  the  treasure  of  their  listening  heart, 

Uttereth  no  music  ? 

Ah ! — so  frail  are  we — 
So  like  the  brief  ephemeron  that  wheels 
Its  momentary  round,  we  scarce  can  weep 
Our  own  bereavements,  ere  we  haste  to  share 
The  clay  with  those  we  mourn.     A  narrow  point 
Divides  our  grief-sob  from  our  pang  of  death : 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Down  to  the  mouldering  multitude  we  go, 
And  all  our  anxious  thoughts,  our  fevered  hopes, 
The  sorrowing  burdens  of  our  pilgrimage 
In  deep  oblivion  rest. 

Then  let  the  woes 

And  joys  of  earth  be  to  the  deathless  soul 
Like  the  spent  dew-drop  from  the  eagle's  wing, 
When,  waking  in  his  strength,  he  sunward  soars. 


158 


THE  WAR  SPIRIT 


WAR-SPIRIT!  war-spirit!  how  gorgeous  thy  path, 
Pale  earth  shrinks  with  fear  from  thy  chariot  of  wrath : 
The  king  at  thy  beckoning  comes  down  from  his  throne, 
To  the  conflict  of  fate  the  armed  nations  rush  on, 
With  the  trampling  of  steeds,  and  the  trumpet's  wild  cry, 
While  the  fold  of  their  banners  gleams  bright  o'er  the  sky 

Thy  glories  are  sought  till  the  life-throb  is  o'er, 
Thy  laurels  pursued,  though  they  blossom  in  gore ; 
'Mid  the  ruins  of  columns  and  temples  sublime, 
The  arch  of  the  hero  doth  grapple  with  time, 
The  muse  o'er  thy  form  throws  her  tissue  divine, 
And  history  her  annal  emblazons  with  thine. 

War-spirit!  war- spirit!  thy  secrets  are  known, 

I  have  looked  on  the  field  when  the  battle  was  done— 

The  mangled  and  slain  in  their  misery  lay, 

And  the  vulture  was  shrieking  and  watching  his  prey ; 

But  the  heart's  gush  of  sorrow,  how  hopeless  and  sore, 

In  the  homes  that  those  loved  ones  revisit  no  more. 


THE  WAR- SPIRIT.  159 

I  have  traced  out  thy  march  by  its  features  of  pain, 

While  famine  and  pestilence  stalked  in  thy  train, 

And  the  trophies  of  sin  did  thy  victory  swell, 

And  thy  breath  on  the  soul  was  the  plague-spot  of  hell; 

Death  lauded  thy  deeds,  and  in  letters  of  flame 

The  realm  of  perdition  recorded  thy  name. 

War  spirit !  war  spirit !  go  down  to  thy  place, 
With  the  demons  that  thrive  on  the  woe  of  our  race ; 
Call  back  thy  strong  legions  of  madness  and  pride, 
Bid  the  rivers  of  blood  thou  hast  opened  be  dried — 
Let  thy  league  with  the  grave  and  Aceldama  cease, 
And  yield  the  torn  world  to  the  angel  of  peace. 


14 


160 


DEATH  AMONG  THE  TREES. 


DEATH  walketh  in  the  forest. 

The  tall  pines 

Do  woo  the  lightning-flash,  and  through  their  veins 
The  fire-shaft,  darting,  leaves  their  blackened  trunks 
A  tablet,  for  ambition's  sons  to  read 
Their  destiny.     The  oak  that  centuries  spared, 
Grows  gray  at  last,  and,  like  some  time-worn  man 
Stretching  out  palsied  arms,  doth  feebly  cope 
With  the  destroyer,  while  its  gnarled  roots 
Betray  their  trust.     The  towering  elm  turns  pale, 
And  faintly  strews  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf, 
While  from  its  dead  arms  falls  the  wedded  vine. 
The  sycamore  uplifts  a  beacon  brow, 
Denuded  of  its  honors,  and  the  blast, 
Swaying  the  withered  willow,  rudely  asks 
For  its  lost  grace,  and  for  its  tissued  leaf, 
With  silver  lined. 

1  knew  that  blight  might  check 
The  sapling,  ere  kind  Nature's  hand  could  weave 
Its  first  spring-coronal,  and  that  the  worm, 
Coiling  itself  amid  our  garden  plants, 


DEA.TH  AMONG  THE  TREES.  161 

Did  make  their  unborn  buds  its  sepulchre. 

And  well  I  know  how  wild  and  wrecking  winds 

Might  take  the  forest- monarchs  by  the  crown, 

And  lay  them  with  the  lowliest  vassal-herb ; 

And  that  the  axe,  with  its  sharp  ministry, 

Might,  in  one  hour,  such  revolution  work, 

As  all  Earth's  boasted  power  could  never  hop* 

To  reinstate.     And  I  had  seen  the  flame 

Go  crackling  up,  amid  yon  verdant  boughs, 

And  with  a  tyrant's  insolence  dissolve 

Their  interlacing,  till  I  felt  that  man, 

For  sordid  gain,  would  make  the  forest's  pomp, 

Its  heaven-raised  arch  and  living  tracery, 

One  funeral-pyre. 

But,  yet  I  did  not  deem 

That  pale  Disease  amid  those  shades  would  steal 
As  to  a  sickly  maiden's  cheek,  and  waste 
The  power  and  plenitude  of  those  high  ranks, 
Which  in  their  peerage  and  nobility, 
Unrivalled  and  unchronicled,  had  reigned. 
And  so  I  said,  if  in  this  world  of  knells 
And  open  tombs,  there  lingereth  one  whose  dream 
Is  of  aught  permanent  below  the  skies, 
Even  let  him  come  and  muse  among  the  trees, 
For  they  shall  be  his  teachers ;  they  shall  bow 
To  Wisdom's  lessons  his  forgetful  ear, 
And,  by  the  whisper  of  their  faded  leaves, 
Soften  to  his  sad  heart  the  thought  of  death. 


162 


RADIANT  CLOUDS  AT  SUNSET. 


BRIGHT  Clouds!  ye  are  gathering  one  by  one, 
Ye  are  sweeping  in  pomp  round  the  dying  sun, 
With  crimson  banner,  and  golden  pall, 
Like  a  host  to  their  chieftain's  funeral  *, 
Perchance  ye  tread  to  that  hallowed  spot, 
With  a  muffled  dirge,  though  we  hear  it  not. 

But  methinks  ye  tower  with  a  lordlier  crest, 
And  a   richer   robe   as   he  sinks  to  rest ; 
Not  thus,  in  the  day  of  his  pride  and  wrath, 
Did  ye  dare  to  press  on  his  glorious  path, 
At  his  noontide  glance  ye  have  quaked  with  fear, 
And  hasted  to  hide  in  your  misty  sphere. 

Do  you  say  he  is  dead  ? — You  exult  in  vain, 
With  your  rainbow  tint  and  your  swelling  train : 
He  shall  rise  again  with  his  strong  bright  ray, 
He  shall  reign  in  power  when  you  fade  away, 
When  ye  darkly  cower  in  your  vapory  hall, 
Tintlcss,  and  naked,  and  noteless  all. 


RADIANT  CLOUDS  AT  SUNSET.  163 

The  Soul ! — The  Soul ! — with  its  eye  of  fire, 
Thus,  thus  shall  it  soar  when  its  foes  expire, 
It  shall  spread  its  wing  o'er  the  ills  that  pained, 
The  evils  that  shadowed,  the  sins  that  stained ; 
It  shall  dwell  where  no  rushing  cloud  hath  sway, 
And  the  pageants  of  earth  shall  have  melted  away. 


164 


THE  BURMANS  AND  THEIR  MISSIONARY 


"Are  you  Jesus  Christ's  man?     Give  us  a  writing  that  tells 
about  Jesus  Christ." — LETTER  OF  REV.  DR.  JUDSON. 


THERE  is  a  cry  in  Burmah,  and  a  rush 
Of  thousand  footsteps  from  the  distant  bound 
Of  watery  Siam,  and  the  rich  Cathay. 
From  the  far  northern  frontier,  pilgrims  meet 
The  central  dwellers  in  the  forest-shades, 
And  on  they  press  together.     Eager  hope 
Sits  in  their  eye,  and  on  their  lips  the  warmth 
Of  strong  request.     Is  it  for  bread  they  seek, 
Like  the  dense  multitude,  which,  fainting,  hung 
Upon  the  Saviour's  words,  till  the  third  day 
Closed  in,  and  left  them  hungering  ? 

Not  for  food 

Or  raiment  ask  they.  Simply  girding  on 
The  scanty  garment  o'er  the  weary  limb, 
They  pass  unmarked,  the  lofty  domes  of  wealth 


THE  BURMANS  AND  THEIR  MISSION ARV. 

Inquiring  for  a  stranger.     There  he  stands  ; 

The  mark  of  foreign  climes  is  on  his  brow ; 

He  hath  no  power,  no  costly  gifts  to  deal 

Among  the  people,  and  his  lore  perchance 

The  earth-bowed  worldling  with  his  scales  of  gold, 

Accounteth  folly.     Yet  to  him  is  raised 

Each  straining  eye-ball,  «  Tell  us  of  the  Christ !" 

And  like  the  far-off  murmur  of  the  sea 

Lashed  by  the  tempest,  swells   their   blended  tone, 

"  Yea.     Tell  us  of  the  Christ.     Give  us  a  scroll 

Bearing  his  name." 

And  there  the  teacher  stood, 
Far  from  his  native  land — amid  the  graves 
Of  his  lost  infants,  and  of  her  he  loved 
More  than  his  life. — Yes,  there  he  stood  alone, 
And  with  a  simple,  saint-like  eloquence 
Spake  his  Redeemer's  word.     Forgot  were  all — 
Home,  boj'hood,  Christian-fellowship — the  tone 
Of  his  sweet  babes — his  partner's  dying  strife — 
Chains,  perils,  Burman  dungeons,  all  forgot, 
Save  the  deep  danger  of  the  heathen's  soul, 
And  God's  salvation.     And  methought  that  earth 
In  all  she  vaunts  of  majesty,  or  tricks 
With  silk  and  purple,  or  the  baubled  pride 
Of  throne  and  sceptre,  or  the  blood-red  pomp, 
Of  the  stern  hero,  had  not  aught  to  boast 
So  truly  great,  so  touching,  so  sublime, 


166  THE  BURMAN9  AND  THEIR  MISSIONARY. 

As  that  lone  Missionary,  shaking  off 
All  links  and  films  and  trappings  of  the  world, 
And  in  his  chastened  nakedness  of  soul 
Rising  to  bear  the  embassy  of  Heaven. 


167 


THE  DEAD  HORSEMAN. 


Occasioned  by  reading  the  manner  of  conveying  a  young  man  to 
burial,  in  the  mountainous  region  about  Vettie's  Giel,  in  Norway. 


WHO'S  riding  o'er  the  Giel  so  fast, 

'Mid  the  crags  of  Utledale  ? 
He  heeds  not  cold,  nor  storm,  nor  blast ; 

But  his  cheek  is  deadly  pale. 

A  fringe  of  pearl  from  his  eye-lash  long, 

Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  hung; 
And  his  sinewy  arm  looks  bold  and  strong, 

Though  his  brow  is  smooth  and  young. 

Round  his  marble  forehead,  in  clusters  bright, 

Is  wreathed  his  golden  hair ; 
His  robe  is  of  linen,  long  and  white, 
Though  a  mantle  of  fur  scarce  could  'bide  the  blight 

Of  his  keen  and  frosty  air. 


168  THE  DEAD  HORSEMAN. 

God  speed  thee  now,  thou  horseman  bold! 

For  the  tempest  awakes  in  wrath ; 
And  thy  stony  eye  is  fixed  and  cold 

As  the  glass  of  thine  icy  path. 

Down,  down  the  precipice  wild  he  breaks, 

Where  the  foaming  waters  roar; 
And  his  way  up  the  cliff  of  the  mountain  takes, 

Where  man  never  trod  before. 

No  checking  hand  to  the  rein  he  lends, 

On  slippery  summits  sheen; 
But  ever  and  aye  his  head  he  bends 

At  the  plunge  in  some  dark  ravine. 

Dost  thou  bow  in  prayer,  to  the  God  who  guides 

Thy  course  o'er  such  pavement  frail  ? 
Or  nod  in  thy  dream   on  the  steep,  where  glides 
The  curdling  brook,  with  its  slippery  tides, 
Thou  horseman,  so  young  and  pale  ? 

Swift,  swift  o'er  the  breast  of  the  frozen  streams, 

Toward  Lyster-Church  he  hies — 
Whose  holy  spire  'mid  the  glaciers  gleams, 

Like  a  star  in  troubled  skies. 

Now  stay,  thou  ghostly  traveller — stay, 
Why  haste  in  such  mad  career  ? 


THE  DEAD  HORSEMAN.  169 

Be  the  guilt  of  thy  bosom  as  dark  as  it  may, 
'Twere  better  to  purge  it  here. 

On,  on !  like  the  winged  blast  he  wends, 
Where  moulder  the  bones  of  the  dead — 

Wilt  thou  stir  the  sleep  of  thy  buried  friends, 
With  thy  courser's  tramping  tread  ? 

At  a  yawning  pit,  whose  narrow  brink, 

'Mid  the  swollen  snow  was  grooved, 
lie  paused.     The  steed  from  that  chasm  did  shrink 

But  the  rider  sate  unmoved. 

Then  down  at  once,  from  his  lonely  seat, 

They  lifted  the  horseman  pale, 
And  laid  him  low  in  that  drear  retreat 
And  poured  in  dirge-like  measure  sweet, 

The  mournful  funeral  wail. 

Bold  youth !  whose  bosom  with  pride  had  glowed 

In  a  life  of  toil  severe — 
Didst  thou  scorn  to  pass  to  thy  last  abode 

In  the  ease  of  the  slothful  bier  ? 

Must  thy  own  good  steed,  which  thy  hands  had  drest, 

In  the  fulness  of  boyhood's  bliss, 
By  the  load  of  thy  lifeless  limbs  be  prest, 

On  a  journey  so  strange  as  this  ? 


170  THE  DEAD  HORSEMAN. 

Yet  still  to  the  depth  of  yon  rock-barred  dell, 

Where  no  ray  from  heaven  hath  glowed, 
Where  the  thundering  rush  of  the  Markefoss  fell, 
The  trembling  child  doth  point  and  tell 
How  that  fearful  horseman  rode. 


171 


THE  LONELY  CHURCH. 


IT  stood  among  the  chestnuts,  its  white  spire 
And  slender  turrets  pointing  where  man's  heart 
Should  oftener  turn.     Up  went  the  wooded  cliffs, 
Abruptly  beautiful,  above  its  head, 
Shutting  with  verdant  screen  the  waters  out, 
That  just  beyond  in  deep  sequestered  vale 
Wrought  out  their  rocky  passage.     Clustering  roofs 
And  varying  sounds  of  village  industry 
Swelled  from  its  margin,  while  the  busy  loom, 
Replete  with  radiant  fabrics,  told  the  skill 
Of  the  prompt  artisan. 

But  all  around 

The  solitary  dell,  where  meekly  rose 
That  consecrated  church,  there  was  no  voice 
Save  what  still  Nature  in  her  worship  breathes, 
And  that  unspoken  lore  with  which  the  dead 
Do  commune  with  the  living.     There  they  lay, 
Each  in  his  grassy  tenement,  the  sire 
Of  many  winters,  and  the  noteless  babe 
Over  whose  empty  cradle,  night  by  night, 
15 


172  THE  LONELY  CHURCH. 

Sate  the  poor  mother  mourning,  in  her  tears 
Forgetting  what  a  little  span  of  time 
Did  hold  her  from  her  darling.     And  methought, 
How  sweet  it  were,  so  near  the  sacred  house 
Where  we  had  heard  of  Christ,  and  taken  his  yoke, 
And  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  gathered  strength 
To  do  his  will,  thus  to  lie  down  and  rest, 
Close  'neath  the  shadow  of  its  peaceful  walls ; 
And  when  the  hand  doth  moulder,  to  lift  up 
Our  simple  tomb-stone  witness  to  that  faith 
Which  cannot  die. 

Heaven  bless  thee,  Lonely  Chuich 
And  daily  may'st  thou  warn  a  pilgrim-band, 
From  toil,  from  cumbrance,  and  from  strife  to  flee. 
And  drink  the  waters  of  eternal  life : 
Still  in  sweet  fellowship  with  trees  and  skies, 
Friend  both  of  earth  and  heaven,  devoutly  stand 
To  guide  the  living  and  to  guard  the  dead. 


173 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  BRUCE. 


"  When  he  found  his  end  drev»  nigh,  that  great  king  summoned 
his  barons  and  peers  around  him,  and,  singling  out  the  good  Lord 
James  of  Douglas,  fondly  entreated  him,  as  his  old  friend  and  com 
panion  in  arms,  to  cauoe  his  heart  to  be  taken  from  his  body,  after 
death,  and  to  transport  it  to  Palestine,  in  redemption  of  a  vow  which 
he  had  made  to  go  thither  in  person." — SIR  WALTER  SCOTT'S  His- 
v  SCOTLAND. 


KING  ROBERT  bore  with  gasping  breath 

The  strife  of  mortal  pain. 
And,  gathering  round  the  couch  of  death, 

His  nobles  mourned  in  vain. 
Bathed  were  his  brows  in  chilling  dew, 

As  thus  he  faintly  cried, — 
a  Red  Comyn,  in  his  sins,  I  slew 

At  the  high  altar's  side. 

Tor  this  a  vow  my  soul  hath  bound, 
In  armed  lists  to  ride, 


174  THE  HEART  OF  THE  BRUCE. 

A  warrior  to  that  Holy  Ground 
Where  my  Redeemer  died. 

Lord  James  of  Douglas,  see,  we  part ! 
I  die  before  my  time ; 

I  charge  thee  bear  this  pulseless  heart 
A  pilgrim  to  that  clime." 

He  ceased,  for  lo !  in  close  pursuit, 

With  fierce  and  fatal  strife, 
Death  came,  and  crush'd  with  icy  foot 

The  brittle  lamp  of  life. 
The  brave  Earl  Douglas,  trained  to  meet 

Dangers  and  perils  wild, 
Now,  kneeling  at  his  sovereign's  feet, 

Wept  as  a  weaned  child. 

Beneath  Dunfermline's  hallowed  nave, 

Enwrapt  in  cloth  of  gold, 
The  Bruce's  relics  found  a  grave 

Deep  in  their  native  mould  ; 
But  locked  within  its  silver  vase, 

Next  to  Lord  James'  breast, 
His  heart  went  journeying  on  apace, 

In  Palestine  to  rest. 

While  many  a  noble  Scottish  knight, 
With  sable  shield  and  plume, 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  BRUCE.  17 i> 

Rode  as  its  guard  in  armor  bright, 

To  bless  their  Saviour's  tomb. 
As  on  the  scenery  of  Spain 

They  bent  a  traveller's  eye, 
Forth  came,  in  bold  and  glorious  train, 

Her  flower  of  chivalry. 

Led  by  Alphonso  'gainst  the  Moor, 

They  came  in  proud  array, 
And  set  their  serried  phalanx  sure 

To  bide  the  battle-fray. 
"God  save  ye  now,  ye  gallant  band 

Of  Scottish  warriors  true  \ 
Good  service  for  the  Holy  Land 

Ye  on  this  field  may  do." 

So  with  the  cavalry  of  Spain 

In  brother's  grasp  they  closed, 
And  the  grim  Saracen  in  vain 

Their  blended  might  opposed ; 
But  Douglas,  with  his  falcon-glance, 

O'erlooking  crest  and  spear, 
Saw  brave  St.  Clair  with  broken  lance,— 

That  friend  from  childhood  dear. 

He  saw  him  by  a  thousand  foes 
Opprest  and  overborne, 


15' 


176  THE  HEART  OF  THE  BRUCE. 

And  high  the  blast  of  rescue  rose 

From  his  good  bugle-horn ; 
And,  reckless  of  the  Moorish  spears, 

In  bristling  ranks  around, 
His  monarch's  heart,  oft  steeped  in  tears, 

He  from  his  neck  unbound, 

And  flung  it  toward  the  battle  front, 

And  cried,  with  panting  breath, 
"  Pass  first,  my  liege,  as  thou  wert  wont, — 

I  follow  thee  to  death." 
Stern  Osmyn's  sword  was  dire  that  day, 

And  keen  the  Moorish  dart, 
And  there  Earl  Douglas  bleeding  lay 

Beside  the  Bruce's  heart. 

Embalmed  with  Scotland's  flowing  tears, 

That  peerless  champion  fell, 
And  still  the  lyre,  to  future  years, 

His  glorious  deeds  shall  tell. 
The  "good  Lord  James,"  that  honored  name, 

Each  Scottish  babe  shall  call, 
And  all  who  love  the  Bruce's  fame 

Deplore  the  Douglas'  fall. 


177 


WINTER. 


I  DEEM  thce  not  unlovely,  though  thou  com'st 
With  a  stern  visage.     To  the  tuneful  bird, 
The  hlushing  flowret,  the  rejoicing  stream, 
Thy  discipline  is  harsh.     But  unto  man 
Methinks  thou  hast  a  kindlier  ministry. 
Thy  lengthened  eve  is  full  of  fireside  joys, 
And  deathless  linking  of  warm  heart  to  heart, 
So  that  the  hoarse  storm  passeth  by  unheard. 
Earth,  robed  in  white,  a  peaceful  Sabbath  holds, 
And  keepeth  silence  at  her  Maker's  feet. 
She  ceaseth  from  the  harrowing  of  the  plough, 
And  from  the  harvest-shouting. 

Man  should  rest 

Thus  from  his  fevered  passions,  and  exhale 
The  unbreathed  carbon  of  his  festering  thought, 
And  drink  in  holy  health.     As  the  toss'd  bark 
Doth  seek  the  shelter  of  some  quiet  bay 
To  trim  its  shattered  cordage,  and  restore 
Its  riven  sails — so  should  the  toil-worn  mind 
Refit  for  time's  rough  voyage.     Man,  perchance, 


178  WINTER. 

Soured  by  the  world's  sharp  commerce,  or  impaired 
By  the  wild  wanderings  of  his  summer  way, 
Turns  like  a  truant  scholar  to  his  home, 
And  yields  his  nature  to  sweet  influences 
That  purify  and  save. 

The  ruddy  boy 

Comes  with  his  shouting  school-mates  from  their  sport, 
On  the  smooth,  frozen  lake,  as  the  first  star 
Hangs,  pure  and  cold,  its  twinkling  cresset  forth. 
And  throwing  off  his  skates  with  boisterous  glee, 
Hastes  to  his  mother's  side.     Her  tender  hand 
Doth  shake  the  snow-flakes  from  his  glossy  curls, 
And  draw  him  nearer,  and  with  gentle  voice 
Ask  of  his  lessons,  while  her  lifted  heart 
Solicits  silently  the  Sire  of  Heaven 
To  "  bless  the  lad."     The  timid  infant  learns 
Better  to  love  its  sire — and  longer  sits 
Upon  his  knee,  and  with  a  velvet  lip 
Prints  on  his  brow  such  language,  as  the  tongue 
Hath  never  spoken. 

Come  thou  to  life's  feast 
With  dove-eyed  meekness,  and  bland  chanty, 
And  thou  shalt  find  even  Winter's  rugged  blast 
The  minstrel  teacher  of  thy  well-tuned  soul : 
And  when  the  last  drop  of  its  cup  is  drained — 
Arising  with  a  song  of  praise — go  up 
To  the  eternal  banquet. 


179 


FAREWELL  TO  AN  ANCIENT  CHURCH 


FAREWELL,  thou  consecrated  dome, 

Whence  prayer  and  chant  and  anthem  rose, 

Whose  walls  have  given  meek  Hope  a  home, 
And  tearful  Penitence,  repose. 

Here  gathered  round  their  shepherd-guide. 

A  flock,  to  the  Redeemer  dear, 
While  praise  in  full,  responsive  tide, 

Soared  heavenward,  to  its  native  sphere. 

Here  at  this  altar's  hallowed  side, 
Oft  was  the  bond  of  deathless  love 

Sealed  by  the  kneeling,  trembling  bride — 
Where  is  that  bride  ?     Perchance  above. 

The  mother  here  her  infant  drew, 
Unscathed  by  sin  or  sorrow's  rod, 

To  win  the  pure,  baptismal  dew — 
Where  is  that  mother?     Ask  of  God. 


180  FAREWELL  TO  AN  ANCIENT  CHURCH. 

And  duly  here  lias  childhood's  train 
Bowed  to  Instruction's  mildest  sway : 

But  were  those  ceaseless  lessons  vain  ? 
The  page  of  doom  alone  can  say. 

Here  many  a  brow  in  beauty's  prime 
Hath  faded,  like  the  rose-tinged  cloud, 

And  many  a  head  grown  white  with  time, 
That  towered  in  manhood's  glory  proud. 

Oh!  if  from  yon  celestial  place, 

Bright  bands  regard  a  world  like  this, 

Here  many  a  sainted  soul  may  trace 
The  birth-place  of  its  boundless  bliss. 

Witli  tenderest  recollections  fraught, 
How  do  these  parting  moments  swell ! 

Thou  ancient  nurse  of  holy  thought, 
Pear,  venerated  dome,  farewell ! 


181 


BENEVOLENCE. 


"  The  silver  is  mine,  and  the  gold  is  mine — saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ' 
HAGGAI,  n.  8. 


WHOSE  is  the  gold  that  glitters  in  the  mine  ? 
And  whose  the  silver  ?    Are  they  not  the  Lord's  ? 
And  lo !  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
And  the  broad  earth  with  all  her  gushing  springs, 
Are  they  not  his  who  made  them  ? 

Ye  who  hold 

Slight  tenantry  therein,  and  call  your  lands 
By  your  own  names,  and  lock  your  gathered  gold 
From  him  who  in  his  bleeding  Saviour's  name 
Doth  ask  a  part,  whose  shall  those  riches  be 
When,  like  the  grass-blade  from  the  autumn-frost, 
You  fall  away  ? 

Point  out  to  me  the  forms 
That  in  your  treasure-chambers  shall  enact 
Glad  mastership,  and  revel  where  you  toiled 


182  BENEVOLENCE. 

Sleepless  and  stern.     Strange  faces  are  they  all. 

Oh  man !  whose  wrinkling  labor  is  for  heirs 
Thou  knowest  not  who,  thou  in  thy  mouldering  bed, 
Unkenned,  unchronicled  of  them,  shalt  sleep; 
Nor  will  they  thank  thee,that  thou  didst  bereave 
Thy  soul  of  good  for  them. 

Now,  thou  mayest  give 
The  famished  food,  the  prisoner  liberty, 
Light  to  the  darkened  mind,  to  the  lost  souV 
A  place  in  heaven.     Take  thou  the  privilege. 
With  solemn  gratitude.     Speck  as  thou  art 
Upon  earth's  surface,  gloriously  exult 
To  be  co-worker  with  the  King  of  kings. 


APPEAL  OF  THE  BLIND. 

TO  BE  SUNG  AT  AN  EXHIBITION  OF  BLIND  BOYS. 


YE  see  the  glorious  sun, 

The  varied  landscape  light. 
The  moon  with  all  her  starry  train, 

Illume  the  aich  of  night, 
Bright  tree,  and  bird,  and  flower 

That  deck  your  joyous  way, 
The  face  of  kindred  and  of  friend, 

More  fair,  more  dear  than  they. 

For  us  there  glows  no  sun, 

No  green  and  flowery  lawn ; 
Our  rayless  darkness  hath  no  moon. 

Our  midnight  knows  no  dawn ; 
The  parent's  pitying  eye, 

To  all  our  sorrows  true, 
The  brother's  brow,  the  sister's  smile, 

Have  never  met  our  view. 


16 


184  APPEAL  OF  THE  BLIND. 

Still  there's  a  lamp  within, 

That  knowledge  fain  would  light. 
And  pure  Religion's  radiance  touch 

With  beams  for  ever  bright, 
Say,  shall  it  rise  to  share 

Such  radiance  full  and  free  ? 
And  will  ye  keep  a  Saviour's  charge 

And  cause  the  blind  to  see  ? 


EVENING  BY  THE  SEA-SHORE. 


WHEN  fervid  summer  crisps  the  shrinking  nerve. 

And  every  prismed  rock  doth  catch  the  ray 

As  in  a  burning  glass,  'tis  wise  to  seek 

This  city  of  the  wave.     For  here  the  dews 

With  which  Hygeia  feeds  the  flower  of  life 

Are  ever  freshening  in  their  secret  founts. 

Here  may'st  thou  talk  with  the  ocean,  and  no  ear 

Of  gossip  islet  on  thy  words  shall  feed. 

Send  thy  free  thought  upon  the  winged  winds, 

That  sweep  the  castles  of  an  older  world, 

And  what  shall  bar  it  from  their  ivied  heights  ? 

— 'Tis  well  to  talk  with  Ocean.     Man  may  cast 
His  pearl  of  language  on  unstable  hearts, 
And,  thriftless  sower !  reap  the  winds  again. 
But  thou,  all-conquering  element,  dost  grave 
Strong  characters  upon  the  eternal  rock, 
Furrowing  the  brow  that  holdeth  speech  with  thee. 
Musing  beneath  yon  awful  cliffs,  the  soul, 
That  brief  shell-gatherer  on  the  shores  of  time, 


186  EVENING  BY  THE  SEA.-SHORE. 

Feels  as  a  brother  to  the  drop  that  hangs 
One  moment  trembling  on  thy  crest,  and  sinks 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  wave. 

— And  see,  outspreading  her  broad,  silver  scroll 
Forth  comes  the  moon,  that  meek  ambassador, 
Bearing  Heaven's  message  to  the  mighty  surge. 
Yet  he,  who  listeneth  to  its  hoarse  reply, 
Echoing  in  anger  through  the  channel'd  depths 
Will  deem  its  language  all  too  arrogant, 
And  earth's  best  dialect  too  poor  to  claim 
Benignant  notice  from  the  star-pav'd  skies, 
And  man  too  pitiful  to  lift  himself 
In  the  frail  armour  of  his  moth-crushM  pride. 
Amid  o'ershadowing  nature's  majesty. 


187 


THE  MOTHER. 


"  It  may  be  Autumn,  yea  Winter  with  the  woman  —but  with  the 
mother,  as  a  mother,  it  is  always  Spj.ng." — SERMON  OF  THE  REV. 
THOMAS  COBEETT,  AT  LYNN,  1665. 


I  SAW  an  aged  woman  bow 

To  weariness  and  care, 
Time  wrote  his  sorrows  on  her  brow 

And  'mid  her  frosted  hair. 

Hope,  from  her  breast  had  torn  away 
Its  rooting,  scathed  and  dry, 

And  on  the  pleasures  of  the  gay 
She  turned  a  joyless  eye. 

What  was  it  that  like  sunbeam  clear 
O'er  her  wan  features  run, 

As  pressing  towards  her  deafened  ear 
I  named  her  absent  son  ? 


188  THE  MOTHER. 

What  was  it !     Ask  a  mother's  breast 
Through  which  a  fountain  flows 

Perennial,  fathomless  and  blest, 
By  winter  never  fro/o. 

What  was  it  ?     Ask  the  King  of  kings, 

Who  hath  decreed,  above, 
That  change  should  mark  all  earthly  things. 

Except  a  mother's  love 


189 


THE  WIDOW  OF  ZAREPHATH. 


THERE  fell  no  rain  on  Israel.     The  sad  trees, 
Reft  of  their  coronals,  and  the  crisp  vines, 
And  flowers  \vhose  dewless  bosoms  sought  the  dusl 
Mourned  the  long  drought.     The  miserable  herds 
Pined  on,  and  perished  'mid  the  scorching  fields ; 
And  near  the  vanished  fountains  where  they  used 
Freely  to  slake  their  thirst,  the  moaning  flocks 
Laid  their  parched  mouths  and  died. 

A  holy  man, 

Who  saw  high  visions  of  unuttered  things, 
Dwelt,  in  deep-musing  solitude,  apart 
Upon  the  banks  of  Cherith.     Dark  winged  birds, 
Intractable  and  fierce,  were  strangely  moved 
To  shun  the  hoarse  cries  of  their  callow  brood, 
And  night  and  morning  lay  their  gathered  spoils 
Down  at  his  feet.     So,  of  the  brook  he  drank, 
Till  pitiless  suns  exhaled  that  slender  rill 
Which,  singing,  used  to  glide  to  Jordan's  breast. 
Then  warned  of  God,  he  rose  and  went  his  way 


180  THE  WIDOW  OF  ZAREPIIATII. 

Unto  the  coast  of  Zidon.     Near  the  gates 
Of  Zarephath  he  marked  a  lowly  cell, 
Where  a  pale,  drooping  widow  in  the  depth 
Of  desolate  and  hopeless  poverty, 
Prepared  the  last  scant  morsel  for  her  son, 
That  he  might  eat  and  die. 

The  man  of  God. 

Entering,  requested  food.     Whether  that  germ 
Of  self-denying  fortitude,  which  stirs 
Sometimes  in  woman's  soul,  and  nerves  it  strong 
For  life's  severe  and  unapplauded  tasks, 
Sprang  up  at  his  appeal — or  whether  He 
Who  ruled  the  ravens,  wrought  within  her  heart, 
I  cannot  say;  but  to  the  stranger's  hand 
She  gave  the  bread.     Then,  round  the  famishcJ  boy 
Clasping  her  widowed  arms,  she  strained  him  dose 
To  her  wan  bosom,  while  his  hollow  eye 
Wondering  and  wistfully  regarded  her, 
With  ill-subdued  reproach. 

But  blessings  fell 

From  the  majestic  guest,  and  every  morn 
The  empty  store  which  she  had  wept  at  eve, 
Mysteriously  replenished,  woke  the  joy 
That  ancient  Israel  felt,  when  round  their  caitip 
The  manna  lay  like  dew.     Thus  many  days 
They  fed,  and  the  poor  famine-stricken  boy 
Looked  up  with  a  clear  eye,  while  vigorous  health 


THE  WIDOW  OF  ZAREPIIATII. 

Flushed  with  unwonted  crimson  his  pure  cheek, 
And  bade  the  fair  flesh  o'er  his  wasted  limbs 
Come  like  a  garment.     The  lone  widow  mused 
On  her  changed  lot,  yet  to  Jehovah's  name 
Gave  not  the  praise ;  but  when  the  silent  moon 
Moved  forth  all  radiant,  on  her  star-girt  throne, 
Uttered  a  heathen's  gratitude,  and  hailed, 
In  the  deep  chorus  of  Zidonian  song, 
"  Astarte,  queen  of  Heaven !" 

But  then  there  came 

A  day  of  woe.     That  gentle  boy,  in  whom 
His  mother  lived,  for  whom  alone  she  deemed 
Time's  weary  heritage  a  blessing,  died. 
Wildly  the  tides  of  passionate  grief  broke  forth, 
And  on  the  prophet  of  the  Lord,  her  Up 
Called  with  indignant  frenzy.     So  he  came, 
And  from  her  bosom  took  the  breathless  clay 
And  bore  it  to  his  chamber.     There  he  knelt 
In  supplication  that  the  dead  might  live. 
He  rose,  and  looked  upon  the  child.     His  cheek 
Of  marble  meekly  on  the  pillow  lay, 
While  round  his  polished  forehead,  the  bright  curls 
Clustered  redundantly.     So  sweetly  slept 
Beauty  and  innocence  in  Death's  embrace, 
ft  seemed  a  mournful  thing  to  waken  them. 

Another  prayer  arose — and  he,  whose  faith 
Had  power  o'er  nature's  elements,  to  seal 


191 


192  THE  WIDOW  OF  ZAREPIIATH. 

The  dripping  cloud,  to  wield  the  lightning's  dart, 
And  soon,  from  Death  escaping,  was  to  soar 
On  car  of  flame  up  to  the  throne  of  God, 
Long,  long,  with  laboring  breast,  and  lifted  eyes, 
Solicited  in  anguish.     On  the  dead 
Once  more  the  prophet  gazed.     A  rigor  seemed 
To  settle  on  those  features,  and  the  hand, 
In  its  immovable  coldness,  told  how  firm 
Was  the  dire  grasp  of  the  insatiate  grave. 
The  awful  seer  laid  down  his  humbled  lip 
Low  in  the  dust,  and  his  whole  being  seemed 
With  concentrated  agony  to  pour 
Forth  in  one  agonizing,  voiceless  strife 
Of  intercession.     Who  shall  dare  to  set 
Limits  to  prayer,  since  it  hath  entered  Heaven ! 
And  won  a  spirit  down  to  its  dense  robe 
Of  earth  again  ? 

Look  !  look,  upon  the  boy ! 
There  was  a  trembling  of  the  parted  lip, 
A  sob — a  shiver — from  the  half-sealed  eye 
A  flash  like  morning — and  the  soul  came  back 
To  its  frail  tenement. 

The  prophet  raised 

The  renovated  child,  and  on  that  breast 
Which  gave  the  life-stream  of  its  infancy 
Laid  the  fair  head  once  more. 

If  ye  would  know 
Aught  of  that  wildering  trance  of  ecstasy, 


THE  WIDOW  OF  ZAREPHATII  193 

Go  ask  a  mother's  heart,  but  question  not 
So  poor  a  thing  as  language.     Yet  the  soul 
Of  her  of  Zarephath,  in  that  blest  hour, 
Believed — and  with  the  kindling  glow  of  faith 
Turned  from  vain  idols  to  the  living  God. 


194 


DIVINE  GOODNESS. 


Thy  mercies  are  new  every  morning  a  xd  fresh  every  moment.' 

DAVID. 


OH  Thou,  who  bounteous  to  thsir  need, 

Dost  all  earth's  thronging  pilgrims  feed, 

Dost  bid  for  them,  in  every  clime, 

The  pregnant  harvest  know  its  time, 

The  flocks  in  verdant  pastures  dwell, 

The  corn  aspire,  the  olive  swell, 

Fain  would  we  bless  that  sleepless  ^ye, 

That  doth  our  hourly  wants  descry. 

— Thou  pour'st  us  from  the  nested  (  ">vn 

The  minstrel  melody  of  love. 

Thou  giv'st  us  of  the  fruitage  fair 

That  summer's  ardent  suns  prepare, 

Of  honey  from  the  rock  that  flows, 

And  of  the  perfume  of  the  rose, 

And  of  the  breeze  whose  balm  repairs 


DIVINE  GOODNESS.  196 

The  sick'ning  waste  of  toil  and  cares. 

— And  though,  perchance,  the  ingrate  knee 

Bends  not  in  praise,  or  prayer  to  thee, 

Though  Sin  that  stole  with  traitor-sway 

Even  Peter's  loyalty  away, 

May  strongly  weave  its  seven-fold  snare, 

And  bring  dejection  and  despair; 

Yet  not  the  morn  with  cheering  eye 

More  duly  lights  the  expecting  sky, 

Nor  surer  speeds  on  pinion  light 

Each  measur'd  moment's  trackless  flight, 

Than  comes  thy  mercy's  kind  embrace 

To  feeble  man's  forgetful  race. 


17 


196 


'TWAS  BUT  A  BABE. 


I  ASKED  them  why  the  verdant  turf  was  riven 

From  its  young  rooting;  and  with  silent  lip 

They  pointed  to  a  new-made  chasm  among 

The  marble-pillared  mansions  of  the  dead. 

Who  goeth  to  his  rest  in  yon  damp  couch  ? 

The  tearless  crowd  pass'd  on — "  'twas  but  a  babe." 

A  babe ! — and  poise  ye,  in  the  rigid  scales 

Of  calculation,  the  fond  bosom's  wealth  ? 

Rating  its  priceless  idols  as  ye  weigh 

Such  merchandise  as  moth  and  rust  corrupt 

Or  the  rude  robber  steals  ?     Ye  mete  out  grief, 

Perchance,  when  youth,  maturity  or  age, 

Sink  in  the  thronging  tomb ;  but  when  the  breath 

Grows  icy  on  the  lip  of  innocence 

Repress  your  measured  sympathies,  and  say 

"'Twas  but  a  babe." 

What  know  ye  of  her  love 
Who  patient  watcheth,  till  the  stars  grow  dim, 
Over  her  drooping  infant,  with  an  eye 
Bright  as  unchanging  Hope,  if  his  repose  ? 
What  know  ye  of  her  woe  who  sought  no  joy 


'TWAS  BUT  A  BABE.  197 

More  exquisite,  than  on  his  placid  brow 
To  trace  the  glow  of  health,  and  drink  at  dawn 
The  angel-sweetness  of  his  waking  smile  ? 
Go,  ask  that  musing  father,  why  yon  grave, 
So  narrow,  and  so  noteless,  might  not  close 
Without  a  tear  ? 

And  though  his  lip  be  mute, 
Feeling  the  poverty  of  speech  to  give 
Fit  answer  to  thee,  still  his  pallid  brow, 
And  the  deep  agonising  prayer  that  loads 
Midnight's  dark  wing  to  Him,  the  God  of  strength, 
May  satisfy  thy  question. 

Ye,  who  mourn 

Whene'er  yon  vacant  cradle,  or  the  robes 
That  decked  the  lost  one's  form,  call  back  a  tide 
Of  alienated  joy,  can  ye  not  trust 
Your  treasure  to  His  arms,  whose  changeless  care 
Passeth  a  mother's  love  ?     Can  ye  not  hope 
When  a  few  hasting  years  their  course  have  run, 
To  go  to  him,  though  he  no  more  on  earth 
Returns  to  you  ? 

And  when  glad  faith  doth  ratch 
Some  echo  of  celestial  harmonies, 
Archangel's  praises,  with  the  high  response 
Of  cherubim,  and  seraphim,  oh  think — • 
Think  that  vour  babe  is  there. 


198 


A  MOTHER'S  COUNSELS. 


DAUGHTER,  the  Book  Divine, 

To  which  we  turn  for  aid, 
When  prosperous  skies  unclouded  shine, 

Or  dark  wing'd  storms  invade, 
Is  ever  open  to  thine  eye, 

Imprint  it  on  thy  soul, 
And  wisdom  that  can  never  die 

Shall  thy  young  thoughts  control, 

Sweetest,  the  cheek  of  bloom, 

Alas  !  how  soon  'twill  wear 
The  clay-cold  coloring  of  the  tomb : 

Then  while  thine  own  is  fair, 
Low  at  his  feet  imploring  fall, 

Who  loves  the  humble  mind, 
And  whose  high  promise  is,  that  all 

Who  early  seek  shall  find. 

Come,  ere  thy  hand  hath  wove 
The  first,  fresh  wreaths  of  Spring, 


A  MOTHER'S  COUNSELS.  199 

Come,  ere  a  worn  and  wither'd  love 

Is  all  thou  hast  to  bring, 
Remember  thy  Creator's  power, 

While  life  from  care  is  free, 
That  when  the  days  of  darkness  lower, 

He  may  remember  thee. 

Yes,  give  thy  heart  to  Him, 

While  budding  Hope  is  green, 
And  when  thy  mother's  eye  is  dim 

To  every  earthly  scene, 
When  this  fond  arm  that  circles  thee 

Must  chill  and  powerless  lie, 
Our  parting  tear,  the  pledge  shall  be 

Of  union  in  the  sky 


200 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


THOU'LT  go !     Thou'lt  go ! 

In  vain,  the  stricken  wife, 
A  poor  unconscious  infant  in  her  arms, 
And  these  young  children,  climbing  to  thy  hand 
Implore  thy  stay.     Thine  aged  parents  bend 
In  prayer,  and  sorrow.     Hath  the  battle-field 
Such  charms  for  thee,  that  thou  wilt  tread  on  all 
That  love  and  nature  give,  and  rush  to  reap 
Its  iron  harvest  ? 

Lo !  you  men, 

Thy  boon  companions,  'neath  the  neighboring  hedge 
Do  wait  for  thee.     The  vow  hath  past  thy  lips 
And  thou  must  go. 

So,  hence  away,  and  share 
Such  pleasures,  as  thy  chosen  course  may  yield ; 
The  stirring  drum,  the  pomp  of  measurM  march, 
The  pride  of  uniform,  the  gazer's  shout 
Of  admiration,  the  alternate  rest 
Of  idleness  in  camps,  and  toil  that  wastes 


THE  VOLUNTEER.  201 

The  nerveless  limb,  and  starts  the  sleepless  eye. 
Take  too,  the  stormy  joy  of  deadly  strife, 
Spill  blood,  and  trample  on  the  mangled  form 
And  like  a  demon,  drink  the  groans  of  pain. 

Yet  sometimes,  when  the  midnight  bowl  is  drained 

And  thou  art  tossing  in  thy  broken  dream, 

Bethink  thee,  soldier,  of  a  cottage  home 

All  desolate,  its  drooping  vines  untrained, 

Its  wintry  hearth  unfed,  and  she,  with  cheek 

^s  pale  as  penury  and  woe  can  make, 

(Why  dost  thou  start  ?)  and  her  once  blooming  one? 

Some  at  hard  service,  where  their  bitter  bread 

Is  scantily  doled  out,  and  some  who  ask 

Her  shuddering  heart,  for  what  she  cannot  give. 

— Still  doth  the  vision  open  ? 

There  are  graves ! 

The  white-hair'd  father  hath  his  rest  in  one, 
And  she,  who  died  lamenting  for  the  son 
Who  snatch'd  the  morsel  from  her  feeble  hand, 
Nor  sought  her  blessing  when  he  went  to  war, 
Sleeps  in  the  other. 

Dreamer !  wake  not  yet. 

Mar  not  the  sequel.     Toward  the  peaceful  shades 
Of  his  own  village,  comes  a  poor,  lone  man 
Whom  misery  and  vice  have  made  their  own. 
His  head  is  bandaged,  and  his  swollen  limbs 


202  THE  VOLUNTEER. 

Drag  heavily.     He  hath  no  threshold  stone, 
No  friend  to  welcome. 

Is  this  he  who  scorn'd 

His  heaven  sworn  duties,  and  his  humble  home, 
And  chose  his  pittance  from  the  cannon's  mouth  ? 


203 


BAPTISM  OF  THE  FIRST  BORN 


"  Come  dearest,  come,  the  Sabbath- bell 
Hath  almost  rung  its  closing  knell ; 
Give  me  our  babe,  and  haste  away, 
With  gladness  on  its  christening  day." 

Yet  still  the  youthful  mother  prest 
Her  first-born  darling  to  her  breast, 
And,  careful  o'er  the  grassy  way, 
That  'tween  the  church  and  cottage  lay, 
The  precious  burden  chose  to  take, 
Scarce  breathing,  lest  its  sleep  should  break. 
— And  those  were  near,  who  well  might  say 
How  late,  the  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Her  footstep  in  the  dance  was  light, 
Her  eye,  in  mirthful  revels  bright, 
And  she,  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Elate  with  joy,  and  free  from  care. 
But  now,  while  holier  thoughts  prevail, 
Her  chasten'd  beauty,  lily-pale, 
The  fervor  of  the  prayer  that  stole 
In  new  devotion  from  her  soul, 


204  BAPTISM  OF  THE  FIRST  BORN. 

Gave  higher  charms  to  brow  and  cheek, 
Such  as  an  angel's  love  might  speak. 
Close  in  her  steps,  an  aged  pair, 
With  furrow'd  face,  and  silver  hair, 
Press  toward  the  font,  intent  to  see 
The  honor  done  to  infancy. 

Oh,  Grandsire !  short  the  season  seems, 
An  April  day  of  showers  and  beams, 
Since  she,  who  totters  by  thy  side, 
Blush'd  in  her  loveliness,  a  bride, 
Since  here,  with  hope's  bright  visions  fraught 
Thy  consecrated  babes  were  brought. 
— The  rite  is  o'er,  the  blessing  said, 
The  first-born  finds  his  cradle-bed ; 
Young  Mother !  prompt  must  be  thy  part 
To  pour  instruction  o'er  his  heart ; 
For  scarce  upon  our  infant  eyes 
The  sprinkled  dew  of  baptism  dries, 
Ere  the  thick  frost  of  manhood's  care, 
And  strong  Death's  icy  seal  are  there. 


205 


"BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD." 


COME,  gather  to  this  burial-place,  ye  gay ! 

Ye,  of  the  sparkling  eye,  and  frolic  brow, 

I  bid  ye  hither.     She,  who  makes  her  bed 

This  day  'neath  yon  damp  turf,  with  spring-flowers  sown, 

Was  one  of  you.     Time  had  not  laid  his  hand 

On  tress  or  feature,  stamping  the  drear  lines 

Of  chill  decay,  till  death  had  nought  to  do, 

Save  that  slight  office  which  the  passing  gale 

Doth  to  the  wasted  taper.     No, — her  cheek 

Shamed  the  young  rose-bud  ;  in  her  eye  was  light 

By  gladness  kindled ;  in  her  footsteps  grace ; 

Song  on  her  lips ;  affections  in  her  breast, 

Like  soft  doves  nesting.     Yet,  from  all  she  turned, 

All  she  forsook,  unclasping  her  warm  hand 

From  friendship's  ardent  pressure,  with  such  smile 

As  if  she  were  the  gainer.     To  lie  down 

In  this  dark  pit  she  cometh,  dust  to  dust, 

Ashes  to  ashes,  till  the  glorious  morn 

Of  resurrection.     Wondering  do  you  ask, — 

Where  is  her  blessedness  ?     Go  home,  ye  gay, 


206  BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD. 

Go  to  your  secret  chambers,  and  kneel  down, 
And  ask  of  God.     Urge  your  request  like  him 
Who,  on  the  slight  raft,  'mid  the  ocean's  foam, 
Toileth  for  life.     And  when  ye  win  a  hope 
That  the  world  gives  not,  and  a  faith  divine, 
Ye  will  no  longer  marvel  how  the  friend, 
So  beautiful,  so  lov'd,  so  lured  by  all 
The  pageantry  of  earth,  could  meekly  find 
A  blessedness  in  death. 


207 


BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 


KING  HENRY  sat  upon  his  throne, 

And  full  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
His  eye  a  recreant  knight  surveyed — 

Sir  Bernardine  du  Born. 
And  he  that  haughty  glance  returned, 

Like  lion  in  his  lair, 
And  loftily  his  unchanged  brow 

Gleamed  through  his  crisped  hair. 

"  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  realm, 

Lord  of  a  lawless  band, 
The  bold  in  speech,  the  fierce  in  broil, 

The  troubler  of  our  land ; 
Thy  castles,  and  thy  rebel-towers, 

Are  forfeit  to  the  crown, 
And  thou  beneath  the  Norman  axe 

Shalt  end  thy  base  renown. 

"  Deignest  thou  no  word  to  bar  thy  doom, 
Thou  with  strange  madness  fired  ? 
18 


208  BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 

Hath  reason  quite  forsook  thy  breast  ?" 

Plantagenet  inquired. 
Sir  Bernard  turned  him  toward  the  king 

He  blenched  not  in  his  pride ; 
u  My  reason  failed,  my  gracious  liege, 

The  year  Prince  Henry  died." 

Quick  at  that  name  a  cloud  of  woe 

Pass'd  o'er  the  monarch's  brow, 
Touched  was  that  bleeding  cord  of  love 

To  which  the  mightiest  bow. 
Again  swept  back  the  tide  of  yeais, 

Again  his  first-born  moved, 
The  fair,  the  graceful,  the  sublime? 

The  erring,  yet  beloved. 

And  ever,  cherished  by  his  side, 

One  chosen  friend  was  near, 
To  share  in  boyhood's  ardent  sport 

Or  youth's  untamed  career ; 
With  him  the  merry  chase  he  sought 

Beneath  the  dewy  morn, 
With  him  in  knightly  tourney  rode, 

This  Bernardine  du  Born. 

Then  in  the  mourning  father's  soul 
Each  trace  of  ire  grew  dim, 


BERNARDINE  DU  BORN.  209 

And  what  his  buried  idol  loved 

Seemed  cleansed  of  guilt  to  him — 
And  faintly  through  his  tears  he  spake, 

"  God  send  his  grace  to  thee, 
And  for  the  dear  sake  of  the  dead, 

Go  forth — unscathed  and  free." 


210 


THE  KNELL 


A  SILVER  sound  was  on  the  summer-air, 
And  yet  it  was  not  music.     The  sweet  birds 
Went  warbling  wildly  forth,  from  grove  and  deli, 
Their  thrilling  harmonies ;  yet  this  low  tone 
Chimed  not  with  them.     But  in  the  secret  soul 
There  was  a  deep  response,  troubling  the  fount 
Where  bitter  tears  are  born.     Too  well  I  knew 
The  tomb's  prelusive  melody.     I  turned, 
And  sought  the  house  of  mourning. 

Ah,  pale  friend ! 

Who  speak'st  not— look'st  not— dost  not  give  the  hand- 
Hath  love  so  perished  in  that  pulseless  breast, 
Once  its  own  throne  ? 

Thou  silent,  changeless  one, 
The  seal  is  on  thy  virtues — now  no  more 
Like  ours  to  tremble  in  temptation's  hour, 
Perchance  to  fall.     Fear  hath  no  longer  power 
To  chill  thy  life-stream,  and  frail  hope  doth  fold 
Her  rainbow  wing,  and  sink  to  rest  with  thee. 
How  good  to  be  unclothed,  and  sleep  in  peace ! 


THE  KNELL.  211 

Friend  ! — Friend  ! — I  grieve  to  lose  thee.     Thou  hast 

been 

The  sharer  of  my  sympathies,  the  soul 
That  prompted  me  to  good,  the  hand  that  shed 
Dew  on  my  drooping  virtues.     In  all  scenes 
Where  we  have  dwelt  together — walking  on 
In  friendship's  holy  concord,  I  am  now 
But  a  divided  being.     Who  is  left 
To  love,  as  thou  hast  loved  ? 

Yet  still,  to  share 

A  few  more  welcomes  from  thy  soft  blue  eye, 
A  few  more  pressures  of  thy  snowy  hand, 
And  ruby  lip,  could  I  enchain  thee  here 
To  all  that  change  and  plenitude  of  ill 
Which  we  inherit  ?    Hence,  thou  selfish  grief! 
Thy  root  is  in  the  earth,  and  all  thy  fruits 
Bitter  and  baneful.     Holy  joy  should  spring 
When  pure  hearts  take  their  portion. 

Go,  beloved ' 

First,  for  thou  wert  most  worthy. — I  will  strive, 
As  best  such  frail  one  may,  to  follow  thee. 


18* 


212 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  HENRY  THE  FIRST. 


LIGHT  sped  a  bark  from  Gallia's  strand 

Across  the  azure  main, 
And  on  her  deck  a  joyous  band, — 

A  proud  and  courtly  train, 
Surrounded  Albion's  princely  heir, 

Who  toward  his  realm  returned ; 
And  music's  cheering  strain  was  there, 

And  hearts  with  pleasure  burned. 

It  was  a  fair  and  glorious  sight 

That  gallant  bark  to  see, 
With  floating  streamers,  glittering  bright 

In  pomp  of  chivalry ; 
The  smooth  sea  bless'd  her  as  she  flew, 

The  gentle  gale  impelled, 
As  if  each  crested  billow  knew 

What  wealth  her  bosom  held. 

But  strangely  o'er  the  summer  sky 
A  sable  cloud  arose, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  HENRY  THE  FIRST.  213 

And  hollow  winds,  careering  high, 

Rushed  on  like  armed  foes. 
Loud  thunders  roll,  wild  tempests  rave, 

Red  lightnings  cleave  the  sky, — 
What  is  yon  wreck  amid  the  wave  ? 

And  whence  that  fearful  cry  ? 

See !  see !  amid  the  foaming  surge 

There  seems  a  speck  to  float, 
And,  with  such  speed  as  oars  can  urge, 

Toils  on  the  laboring  boat. 
The  Prince  is  safe — but  to  his  ear 

There  came  a  distant  shriek, 
Which  to  his  strained  eye  brought  the  tear, 

And  paleness  to  his  cheek. 

That  voice  !  'twas  by  his  cradle  side, 

When  with  sweet  dream  he  slept, — 
It  ruled  his  wrath,  it  soothed  his  pride, 

When  moody  boyhood  wept. 
'Twas  with  him  in  his  hour  of  glee, 

Gay  sports,  and  pastimes  rare ; 
And  at  his  sainted  mother's  knee, 

Amid  the  evening  prayer. 

Plunging,  he  dared  the  breakers  hoarse, — 
None  might  the  deed  restrain, — 


214  THE  CHILDREN  OF  HENRY  THE  FIRST. 

And  battled,  with  a  maniac's  force, 

The  madness  of  the  main. 
He  snatched  his  sister  from  the  wreck, — 

Faint  was  her  accent  dear, 
Yet  strong  her  white  arms  twined  his  neck, — 

«  Blest  William !  art  thou  here  ?" 

The  wild  waves  swelled  like  mountains  on, 

The  blasts  impetuous  sweep; 
Where  is  the  heir  of  England's  throne  ? 

G  o, — ask  the  insatiate  deep ! 
He  sleeps  in  Ocean's  coral  grove, 

Pale  pearls  his  bed  adorn, 
A  martyr  to  that  hallowed  love 

Which  with  his  life  was  born. 

Woe  was  in  England's  halls  that  day, 

Woe  in  her  royal  towers, 
While  low  her  haughty  monarch  lay, 

To  wail  his  smitten  flowers : 
And,  though  protracted  years  bestow 

Bright  honor's  envied  store, 
Yet  on  that  crowned  and  lofty  brow 

The  smile  sat  never  more. 


215 


THE  SEA-BOY. 


«  Up  and  reef  top-sails — ho  !" 

The  storm  was  loud, 

And  the  deep  midnight  muffled  up  her  head, 
Leaving  no  ray.     By  the  red  binnacle 
I  saw  the  sea-boy.     His  young  cheek  was  pale, 
And  his  lip  trembled.     But  he  dared  not  hear 
That  hoarse  command  repeated.     So  he  sprang 
With  slender  foot,  amid  the  slippery  shrouds. 

He,  oft,  by  moonlight-watch,  had  lured  my  ear 
With  everlasting  stories  of  his  home 
And  of  his  mother.     His  fair  brow  told  tales 
Of  household  kisses,  and  of  gentle  hands 
That  bound  it  when  it  ached,  and  laid  it  down 
On  the  soft  pillow,  with  a  curtaining  care. 
And  he  had  sometimes  spoken  of  the  chcci 
That  waited  him,  when  wearied  from  his  school, 
At  winter's  eve  he  came.     Then  he  would  pause, 
For  his  high-beating  bosom  threw  a  chain 
O'er  his  proud  lip,  or  else  it  would  have  sighed 
A  deep  remorse  for  leaving  such  a  home. 


216  THE  SEA-BOY. 

And  he  would  haste  away,  and  pace  the  deck 
More  rapidly,  as  if  to  hide  from  me 
The  gushing  tear.     I  marked  the  inward  strife 
Unquestioning,  save  by  a  silent  prayer, 
That  the  tear  wrung  so  bitterly,  might  work 
The  sea-boy's  good  and  wash  away  all  trace 
Of  disobedience.     Now,  the  same  big  tear 
Hung  like  a  pearl  upon  him,  as  he  climbed 
And  grappled  to  the  mast.     I  watched  his  toil, 
With  strange  foreboding,  till  he  seemed  a  speck 
Upon  the  ebon  bosom  of  the  cloud. 
And  I  remembered  that  he  once  had  said, 
"  /  fear  I  shall  not  see  my  home  again :" 
And  sad  the  memory  of  those  mournful  words 
Dwelt  with  me,  as  he  passed  above  my  sight 
Into  thick  darkness. 

The  wild  blast  swept  on. 
The  strong  ship  tossed. 

Shuddering,  I  heard  a  plunge- 
A  heavy  plunge — a  gurgling  'mid  the  wave. 
I  shouted  to  the  crew.     In  vain  !  In  vain  ! 
The  ship  held  on  her  way.     And  never  more 
Shall  that  poor  delicate  sea-boy  raise  his  head 
To  do  the  bidding  of  those  roughened  men, 
Whose  home  is  on  the  sea.     And  never  more 
May  his  fond  mother  strain  him  to  her  breast, 
Weeping  that  hardship  thus  should  bronze  the  brow 


THE  dEA  BOY.  217 

To  her  so  beautiful — nor  the  kind  sire 
Make  glad,  by  his  forgiveness,  the  rash  youth 
Who  wandered  from  his  home,  to  throw  the  wealth 
Of  his  warm  feelings  on  the  faithless  sea 


218 


MEETING  OF  THE  SUSQUEHANNA  WITH 
THE  LACKA WANNA. 


RUSH  on  glad  stream,  in  thy  power  and  pride, 

To  claim  the  hand  of  thy  promis'd  bride ; 

She  doth  haste  from  the  realm  of  the  darken'd  mine, 

To  mingle  her  murmur'd  vows  with  thine ; 

Ye  have  met — ye  have  met,  and  the  shores  prolong 

The  liquid  notes  of  your  nuptial  song. 

Methinks  ye  wed,  as  the  white  man's  son, 

And  the  child  of  the  Indian  king  have  done ; 

I  saw  thy  bride,  as  she  strove  in  vain, 

To  cleanse  her  brow  from  the  carbon  stain, 

But  she  brings  thee  a  dowry  so  rich  and  true 

That  thy  love  must  not  shrink  from  the  tawny  hue. 

Her  birth  was  rude,  in  a  mountain  cell, 

And  her  infant  freaks  there  are  none  to  tell ; 

The  path  of  her  beauty  was  wild  and  free, 

And  in  dell  and  forest,  she  hid  from  thee ; 

Lut  the  day  of  her  fond  caprice  is  o'er, 

And  she  seeks  to  part  from  thy  breast  no  more. 


SUSQUEIIANNA  AND  LACKAWANNA.  219 

Pass  on  in  the  joy  of  thy  blended  tide, 
Through  the  land  where  the  blessed  Miquon*  died ; 
No  red  man's  blood  with  its  guilty  stain, 
Hath  cried  unto  God  from  that  broad  domain — 
With  the  seeds  of  peace  they  have  sown  the  soil, 
Bring  a  harvest  of  wealth,  for  their  hour  of  toil. 

On,  on,  through  the  vale  where  the  brave  ones  sleep, 

Where  the  waving  foliage  is  rich  and  deep ; 

I  have  stood  on  the  mountain  and  roain'd  through  the 

glen 

To  the  beautiful  homes  of  the  western  men ; 
Yet  naught  in  that  realm  of  enchantment  could  see. 
So  fair,  as  the  vale  of  WTyoming  to  me. 

*  A  name  given  by  the  Aborigines  to  their  friend  William  Penn 


19 


220 


NAPOLEON  AT  HELENA. 


"  The  moon  of  St.  Helena  shone  out,  and  there  we  saw  the  face 
of  Napoleon's  sepulchre,  characterless,  uninscribed." 


Jlnd  who  shall  write  thine  epitaph  ?  thou  man 
Of  mystery  and  might. 

Shall  orphan  hands 

Inscribe  it  with  their  fathers'  broken  swords  ? 
Or  the  warm  trickling  of  the  widow's  tear 
Channel  it  slowly  'mid  the  rugged  rock, 
As  the  keen  torture  of  the  water-drop 
Doth  wear  the  sentenc'd  brain  ? 

Shall  countless  ghosts 
Arise  from  Hades,  and  in  lurid  flame, 
With  shadowy  finger,  trace  thine  effigy, 
Who  sent  them  to  their  audit  unannealed, 
And  with  but  that  brief  space  for  shrift  or  prayer, 
Given  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ? 

Thou  who  didst  sit 
Like  eagle  on  the  apex  of  the  globe, 


NAPOLEON  AT  HELENA.  221 

And  hear  the  murmur  of  its  conquer'd  tribes, 
As  chirp  the  weak-voic'd  nations  of  the  grass, 
Say,  art  thou  sepulchred  in  yon  far  isle, — 
Yon  little  speck,  which  scarce  the  mariner 
Descries  'mid  ocean's  foam  ?     Thou  who  didst  hew 
A  pathway  for  thy  host  above  the  cloud, 
Guiding  their  footsteps  o'er  the  frost-work  crown 
Of  the  thron'd  Alps, — why  dost  thou  sleep,  unmark'd 
Even  by  such  slight  memento  as  the  hind 
Carves  on  his  own  coarse  tomb-stone? 

Bid  the  throng 

Who  pour'd  thee  incense,  as  Olympian  Jove, 
Breathing  thy  thunders  on  the  battle-field, 
Return  and  deck  thy  monument.     Those  forms. 
O'er  the  wide  valleys  of  red  slaughter  strew'd, 
From  pole  to  tropic,  and  from  zone  to  zone, 
Heed  not  the  clarion-call.     Yet,  should  they  rise, 
As  in  the  vision  that  the  prophet  saw, 
Each  dry  bone  to  its  fellow, — or  in  heaps 
Should  pile  their  pillar'd  dust, — might  not  the  stars 
Deem  that  again  the  puny  pride  of  man 
Did  build  its  Babel-stairs,  creeping,  by  stealth, 
To  dwell  with  them  ?     But  here,  unwept,  thou  art, 
Like  some  dead  lion  in  his  thicket-lair, 
With  neither  living  man,  nor  spectre  lone, 
To  trace  thine  epitaph. 

Invoke  the  climes 
That  serv'd  as  playthings,  in  thy  desperate  game 


222  NAPOLEON  AT  HELENA. 

Of  mad  ambition,  or  their  treasures  strew'd 
To  pay  thy  reckoning,  till  gaunt  Famine  fed 
Upon  their  vitals.     France !  who  gave  so  free 
Thy  life-stream  to  his  cup  of  wine,  and  saw 
That  purple  vintage  shed  o'er  half  the  earth, 
Write  the  first  line,  if  thou  hast  blood  to  spare. 
Thou,  too,  whose  pride  adorn'd  dead  Cesar's  tomb, 
And  pour'd  high  requiem  o'er  the  tyrant  train 
Who  rul'd  thee  to  thy  cost,  lend  us  thine  arts 
Of  sculpture  and  of  classic  eloquence 
To  grace  his  obsequies  at  whose  dark  frown 
Thine  ancient  spirit  quail'd ;  and  to  the  list 
Of  mutilated  kings,  who  glean'd  their  meat 
'Neath  Agag's  table,  add  the  name  of  Rome. 
Turn,  Austria !  iron-brow'd  and  stern  of  heart, 
And  on  his  monument  to  whom  thou  gav'st 
In  anger  battle,  and  in  craft  a  bride, 
Grave  Austerlitz,  and  fiercely  turn  away. 
Rouse  Prussia  from  her  trance  with  Jena's  name, 
Like  the  rein'd  war-horse,  at  the  trumpet-blast, 
And  take  her  witness  to  that  fame  which  soars 
O'er  him  of  Macedon,  and  shames  the  vaunt 
Of  Scandinavia's  madman. 

From  the  shades 

Of  letter'd  ease,  O  Germany!  come  forth 
With  pen  of  fire,  and  from  thy  troubled  scroll, 
Such  as  thou  spread'st  at  Leipsic,  gather  tints 
Of  deeper  character  than  bold  romance 


NAPOLEON  AT  HELENA.  223 

Hath  ever  imag'd  in  her  wildest  dream, 

Or  history  trusted  to  her  sibyl  leaves. 

Hail,  lotus- crown'd  !  in  thy  green  childhood  fed 

By  stiff-neck'd  Pharaoh,  and  the  shepherd  kings, 

Hast  thou  no  trait  of  him  who  drench'd  thy  sands, 

At  Jaffa  and  Aboukir  ?  when  the  flight 

Of  rushing  souls  went  up  so  strange  and  strong 

To  the  accusing  Spirit? 

Glorious  isle ! 

Whose  thrice  enwreathed  chain,  Promethean  like, 
Did  bind  him  to  the  fatal  rock,  we  ask 
Thy  deep  memento  for  this  marble  tomb. 
Ho !  fur-clad  Russia !  with  thy  spear  of  frost, 
Or  with  thy  winter-mocking  Cossack's  lance, 
Stir  the  cold  memories  of  thy  vengeful  brain, 
And  give  the  last  line  of  our  epitaph. 

But  there  was  silence.     Not  a  sceptred  hand 
Receiv'd  the  challenge. 

From  the  misty  deep 

Rise,  island-spirits!  like  those  sisters  three, 
Who  spin  and  cut  the  trembling  thread  of  life, 
Rise  on  your  coral  pedestals,  and  write 
That  eulogy  which  haughtier  climes  deny. 
Come,  for  ye  lulled  him  in  your  matron  arms, 
And  cheer'd  his  exile  with  the  name  of  king, 
And  spread  that  ctirtain'd  couch  which  none  disturb  -, 
Come,  twine  some  bud  of  household  tenderness, 
19* 


224  NAPOLEON  AT  HELENA. 

Some  tender  leaflet,  nurs'd  with  nature's  tears, 
Around  this  urn.     But  Corsica,  who  rock'd 
His  cradle  at  Ajaccio,  turn'd  away ; 
And  tiny  Elba  in  the  Tuscan  wave 
Plung'd  her  slight  annal  with  the  haste  of  fear ; 
And  lone  St.  Helena,  heart-sick,  and  grey 
'Neath  rude  Atlantic's  scourging,  bade  the  moon, 
With  silent  finger,  point  the  traveller's  gave 
To  an  unhonored  tomb. 

Then  Earth  arose, 

That  blind  old  empress,  on  her  crumbling  throne, 
And,  to  the  echoed  question — "  Who  shall  write 
Napoleon's   epitaph?" — as  one  who  broods 
O'er  unforgiven  injuries,  answer'd — 


225 


DEAF,  DUMB  AND  BLIND  GIRL,*  AT  A 
FESTIVAL. 


I  SAW  her,  where  the  summer  flowers 
Lay  sprinkled  o'er  the  shaven  green, 

While  birds  sang  gaily  from  their  bowers, 
And  chrystal  waters  flow'd  between. 

I  saw  her,  but  no  song  she  heard, 
No  word  of  fond  delight  she  spoke ; 

No  varying  ray  her   spirit  cheer'd 
That  o'er  the  glorious  landscape  broke 

For  while  her  young  companions  share 
Those  joys  that  ne'er  await  the  blind, 

A  moral  night  of  deep  despair 

Descending,  shrouds  her  lonely  mind. 

Yet  deem  not,  though  so  dark  her  path, 
Heaven  strew'd  no  comfort  o'er  her  lot, 

*  Julia  Brace,  from  the  Asylum  for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb,  at  Hart- 
ford,  Connecticut. 


226  THE  DEA.F,  DUMB  AND  BLIND  GIRL. 

Or  in  her  bitter  cup  of  wrath 

The  healing  drop  of  balm  forgot. 

No!  still  with  unambitious  mind 
The  needle's  patient  task  to  ply, 

At  the  full  board  her  place  to  find, 
Or  close  in  sleep  the  placid  eye, 

With  Order's  unobtrusive  charm 
Her  simple  wardrobe  to  dispose, 

To  press  of  guiding  care  the  arm, 

And  rove  where  autumn's  bounty  flows, 

With  touch  so  exquisitively  true 
That  vision  stands  astonish'd  by, 

To  recognise  with  ardor  due 
Some  friend  or  benefactor  nigh, 

Her  hand  'mid  childhood's  curls  to  place. 

From  fragrant  buds  the  breath  to  steal. 
Of  stranger-guest  the  brow  to  trace, 

Are  pleasures  left  for  her  to  feel. 

And  often  o'er  her  hour  of  thought 
Will  burst  a  laugh  of  wildest  glee, 

As  if  the  living  gems  she  caught 
On  wit's  fantastic  drapery, 


THE  DEAF,  DUMB  AND  BLIND  GIRL.  227 

As  if  at  length,  relenting  skies, 

In  pity  to  her  doom  severe, 
Had  bade  a  mimic  morning  rise, 

The  chaos  of  the  soul  to  cheer. 

But  who,  with  energy  divine, 

May  tread  that  undiscover'd  maze, 
Where  Nature  in  her  curtain'd  shrine 

The  strange  and  new-born  thought  surveys  ? 

Where  quick  perception  shrinks  to  find 

On  eye  and  ear  the  envious  seal, 
And  wild  ideas  throng  the  mind, 

That  palsied  speech  must  ne'er  reveal ; 

Where  Instinct,  like  a  robber  bold, 

Steals  sever'd  links  from  Reason's  chain, 

And  leaping  o'er  her  barrier  cold> 
Proclaims  the  proud  precaution  vain. 

Say,  who  shall  with  magician's  wand 

That  elemental  mass  compose, 
Where  young  affections  slumber  fond 

Like  germs  unwak'd  'mid  wintry  snows  ? 

Who,  in  that  undecipher'd  scroll, 
The  mystic  characters  may  see, 


228  THE  DEAF,  DUMB  AND  BLIND  GIRL. 

Save  He  who  reads  the  secret  soul, 
And  holds  of  life  and  death  the  key  ? 

Then,  on  thy  midnight  journey  roam, 
Poor  wandering  child  of  rayless  gloom, 

And  to  thy  last  and  narrow  home, 
Drop  gently  from  this  living  tomb. 

Yes, — uninterpreted  and  drear, 
Toil  onward  with  benighted  mind, 

Still  kneel  at  prayers  thou  canst  not  hear, 
And  grope  for  truth  thou  may'st  not  find. 

No  scroll  of  friendship,  or  of  love, 

Must  breathe  soft  language  o'er  thy  heart, 

Nor  that  blest  Book  which  guides  above, 
Its  message  to  thy  soul  impart. 

But  thou,  who  didst  on  Calvary  die, 
Flows  not  thy  mercy  wide  and  free  ? 

Thou  who  didst  rend  of  Death  the  tie, 
Is  Nature's  seal  too  strong  for  thee  ? 

And  Thou,  Oh  Spirit  pure !  whose  rest 
Is  with  the  lowly  contrite  train, 

Illume  the  temple  of  her  breast, 
And  cleanse  of  latent  ill  the  stain, 


TIIL  DEAF,  DUMB  AND  BLIND  GIRL.  229 

Thett  she,  whose  pilgrimage  below 
Was  night  that  never  hoped  a  morn, 

That  underfilling  day  may  know 
Which  of  eternity  is  born. 

The  great  transition  who  can  tell  ? 

When  from  the  ear  its  seal  shall  part, 
Where  countless  lyres  seraphic  swell, 

.And  noly  transport  thrills  the  heart; 

When  the  chain'd  tongue,  forbid  to  pour 

The  broken  melodies  of  time, 
Shall  to  the  highest  numbers  soar, 

Of  everlasting  praise  sublime  : 

When  those  veiled  orbs,  which  ne'er  might  trace 

The  features  of  their  kindred  clay, 
Shall  scan,  of  Deity,  the  face, 

And  glow  with  rapture's  deathless  ray. 


230 


THE  TOMB. 


So  parted  they ;  the  angel  up  to  Heaven, 
And  Adam  to  his  bower." 

MILTON. 


THIS  is  the  parting  place;  this  narrow  house, 

With  its  turf  roof  and  marble  door,  where  none 

Have  entered  and  returned.     If  earth's  poor  gold 

E'er  clave  unto  thee,  here  unlade  thyself; 

For  thou  didst  bring  none  with  thee  to  this  world 

Nor  may'st  thou  bear  it  hence.     Honors  hast  thou, 

Ambition's  shadowy  gatherings  ?     Shred  them  loose 

To  the  four  winds,  their  natural  element. 

Yea,  more,  thou  must  unclasp  the  living  ties 

Of  strong  affection.     Hast  thou  nurtured  babes  ? 

And  was  each  wailing  from  their  feeble  lip 

A  thorn  to  pierce  thee  ?  every  infant  smile, 

And  budding  hope,  a  spring  of  ecstacy  ? 

Turn,  turn  away,  for  thou  henceforth  to  them 

A  parent  art  no  more  ?     Wert  thou  a  wife  ? 


THE  TOMB.  231 

And  was  the  arm  on  which  thy  spirit  leaned 
Faithful  in  all  thy  need  ?     Yet  must  thou  leave 
This  fond  protection,  and  pursue  alone 
Thy  shuddering  pathway  down  the  vale  of  death. 
Friendship's  free  intercourse — the  promised  joys 
Of  soul-implanted,  soul-confiding  love, 
The  cherished  sympathies  which  every  year 
Struck  some  new  root  within  thy  yielding  breast. 
Stand  loose  from  all,  thou  lonely  voyager 
Unto  the  land  of  spirits. 

Yea,  even  more ! 

Lay  down  thy  body!     Hast  thou  worshipped  it 
With  vanity's  sweet  incense,  and  wild  waste 
Of  precious  time  ?     Did  beauty  bring  it  gifts, 
The  lily  brow,  the  full  resplendent  eye, 
The  tress,  the  bloom,  the  grace,  whose  magic  power 
Woke  man's  idolatry  ?     Oh  lay  it  down, 
Earth's  reptile  banqueters  have  need  of  it. 

Still  may'st  thou  bear,  o'er  Jordan's  stormy  wave, 
One  blessed  trophy ;  if  thy  life  hath  striven 
By  penitence  and  faith  such  boon  to  gain, 
The  victor  palm  of  Christ's  atoning  love : — 
And  this  shall  win  thee  entrance  when  thou  stand'st 
4  pilgrim  at  Heaven's  gate. 


20 


232 


POETRY. 


MORN  on  her  rosy  couch  awoke, 

Enchantment  led  the  hour, 
And  mirth  and  music  drank  the  dews 

That  freshen  Beauty's  flower. 
Then  from  her  bower  of  deep  delight, 

I  heard  a  young  girl  sing, 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 

The  Sun  in  noon-day  heat  rose  high, 

And  on  with  heaving  breast, 
I  saw  a  weary  pilgrim  toil, 

Unpitied  and  unblest; 
Yet  still  in  trembling  measures  flow'd 

Forth  from  a  broken  string, 
"  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 

'Twas  night,  and  Death  the  curtains  drew, 
'Mid  agony  severe, 


POETRY.  233 

While  there  a  willing-  spirit  went 

Home  to  a  glorious  sphere ; 
Yet  still  it  sigh'd,  even  when  was  spread 

The  waiting  Angel's  wing, 
tf  Oh,  speak  no  ill  of  poetry, 

For  'tis  a  holy  thing." 


234 


BAPTISM  OP  AN  INFANT  AT  ITS* 
MOTHER'S  FUNERAL. 


WHENCE  is  that  trembling  of  a  father's  hand, 
Who  to  the  man  of  God  doth  bring  his  babe, 
Asking  the  seal  of  Christ  ? — Why  doth  the  voice 
That  uttereth  o'er  its  brow  the  Triune  Name 
Falter  with  sympathy  ? — And  most  of  all, 
Why  is  yon  coffin-lid  a  pedestal 
For  the  baptismal  font  ? 

Again  I  asked. 

But  all  the  answer  was  those  gushing  tears 
Which  stricken  hearts  do  weep. 

For  there  she  lay. 

The  fair,  young  mother  in  that  coffin-bed, 
Mourned  by  the  funeral  train.     The  heart  that  beat 
With  trembling  tenderness,  at  every  touch 
Of  love  or  pity,  flushed  the  cheek  no  more. 

Tears  were  thy  baptism,  thou  unconscious  one, 

And  Sorrow  took  thee  at  the  gate  of  life, 
Into  her  cradle.     Thou  may'st  never  know 
The  welcome  of  a  nursing  mother's  kiss, 


BAPTISM  OF  AN  INFANT.  235 

When  lost  in  wondering  ecstacy,  she  marks 
A  thrilling  growth  of  new  affections  spread 
Fresh  greenness  o'er  her  soul. 

Thou  may'st  not  share 
Her  hallowed  teachings,  nor  suffuse  her  eye 
With  joy,  as  the  first  germs  of  infant  thought 
Unfold,  in  lisping  sound. 

Yet  may'st  thou  walk 

Even  as  she  walked,  breathing  on  all  around 
The  warmth  of  high  affections  purified, 
And  sublimated,  by  that  Spirit's  power 
Which  makes  the  soul  fit  temple  for  its  God. 

So  shalt  thou,  in  a  brighter  world,  behold 

That  countenance  which  the  cold  grave  did  veil 
Thus  early  from  thy  sight,  and  the  first  tone 
Bearing  a  mother's  welcome  to  thine  ear 
Be  wafted  from  the  minstrelsy  of  Heaven. 


20' 


236 


THE  FRIENDS  OF  MAN. 


THE  young  babe  sat  on  its  mother's  knee, 
Shaking  its  coral  and  bells  with  glee, 
When  Hope  drew  near,  with  a  seraph  smile, 
To  press  the  lips  that  had  breathed  no  guile, 

Nor  spoke  the  words  of  sorrow ; 
Its  little  sister  brought  a  flower, 
And  Hope,  still  lingering  nigh 
With  sunny  tress  and  sparkling  eye, 
Whispered  of  one  in  a  brighter  bower 
It  might  pluck  for  itself  to-morrow. 

The  boy  came  in  from  the  wintry  snow, 

And  mused  by  the  parlour-fire, 
But  ere  the  evening  lamps  did  glow, 
A  stranger  came,  and,  bending  low, 
Kiss'd  his  fair  and  ruddy  brow ; 
"  What  is  that  in  your  hand  ?"  she  said  ; 
"My  New-Year's  Gift,  with  its  covers  red.' 
"  Bring  hither  the  book,  my  boy,  and  see, 
Tne  magic  spell  of  Memory, 


THE  FRIENDS  OF  MAN.  237 

That  page  hath  gold,  and  a  way  I'll  find 

To  lock  it  safe  in  your  docile  mind ; 

For  books  have  honey,  the  sages  say, 

That  is  sweet  to  the  taste  when  the  hair  is  grey.w 

The  youth  at  midnight  sought  his  bed, 

But,  ere  he  closed  his  eyes, 
Two  forms  drew  near  with  gentle  tread, 

In  meek  and  saintly  guise, 
One  struck  a  lyre  of  wondrous  power, 

With  thrilling  music  fraught, 
That  chain'd  the  flying  summer  hour, 

And  charm'd  the  listener's  thought ; 
For  still  would  its  tender  cadence  be, 

"Follow  me!  Follow  me! 
And  every  morn  a  smile  shall  bring, 
As  sweet  as  the  merry  lay  I  sing." 

She  ceas'd,  and  with  a  serious  air 

The  other  made  reply, 
"  Shall  he  not  also  be  my  care  ? 
May  not  I  his  journey  share  ? 

Sister !  sister !  tell  me  why  ? 
Need  Memory  e'er  with  Hope  contend  ? 
Doth  not  the  virtuous  soul  still  find  in  both  a  friend?" 

The  youth  beheld  the  strife, 
And  eagerly  replied, 


238  THE  FRIENDS  OF  MAN. 

"  Come,  both,  and  be  my  guide> 

And  gild  the  path  of  life  ;" 
So  he  gave  to  each  a  brother's  kiss, 
And  laid  him  down,  and  his  dream  was  bliss. 

The  man  came  forth  to  run  his  race, 
And  ever  when  the  morning  light 

Rous'd  him  from  the  trance  of  night, 
When  singing  from  her  nest, 

The  lark  went  up  with  dewy  breast, 
Hope  by  his  pillow  stood  with  angel  grace ; 

And,  as  a  mother  cheers  her  son, 

She  girded  his  daily  harness  on. 

But  when  the  star  of  eve,  from  weary  care, 

Bade  him  to  his  home  repair, 
When  by  the  hearth-stone  where  his  joys  were  born, 

The  cricket  wound  its  tiny  horn, 
Sober  Memory  spread  her  board 

With  knowledge  richly  stor'd, 
And  supp'd  with  him,  and  like  a  guardian  bless'd 
His  nightly  rest. 

The  old  man  sat  in  his  elbow-chair, 

His  locks  were  thin  and  grey, 

Memory,  that  faithful  friend  was  there, 

And  he  in  querulous  tone  did  say, 


THE  FRIENDS  OF  MAN.  239 

"  Hast  thou  not  lost  with  careless  key. 
Something  that  I  have  entrusted  to  thee  ?" 

Her  pausing  answer  was  sad  and  low, 
"  It  may  be  so !     It  may  be  so ! 
The  lock  of  my  casket  is  worn  and  weak, 
And  Time,  with  a  plunderer's  eye  doth  seek; 
Something  I  miss,  but  I  cannot  say 
What  it  is  he  hath  stolen  away, 
For  only  tinsel  and  trifles  spread 
Over  the  alter'd  path  we  tread ; 
But  the  gems  thou  didst  give  me  when  life  was  new, 

Here  they  are,  all  told  and  true, 
Diamonds  and  rubies  of  changeless  hue." 

But  while  in  grave  debate, 
Mournful,  and  ill  at  ease,  they  sate, 

Finding  treasures  disarrang'd, 
Blaming  the  fickle  world,  though  they  themselves  were 

chang'd, 

Hope  on  a  buoyant  wing  did  soar, 
Which  folded  underneath  her  robe  she  wore, 
And  spread  its  rainbow  plumes  with  new  delight, 
And  jeoparded  its  strength,  in  a  bold,  heavenward  flight. 

The  dying  lay  on  his  couch  of  pain, 
'  And  his  soul  went  forth  to  the  ano^l-train, 


240  THE  FRIENDS  OF  MAN. 

Yet  when  Heaven's  gate  its  golden  bars  undrew, 

Memory  walked  that  portal  through, 
And  spread  her  tablet  to  the  Judge's  eye, 
Heightening  with  clear  response  the  welcome  of  the  sky 

But  Hope  that  glorious  door 
Pass'd  not : — it  was  not  hers  to  dwell 
Where  pure  desires  to  full  fruition  swell. 

Her  ministry  was  o'er : 
To  cheer  earth's  pilgrim  to  the  sky, — 
To  cleanse  the  tear-drop  from  his  eye, 
Was  hers, — then  to  immortal  Joy 

Resign  her  brief  employ, 
Yield  her  sweet  harp,  and  die. 


241 


MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB 


No  WORD  !  no  sound !     But  yet  a  solemn  rite 
Proceedeth  through  the  festive  lighted  hall. 
Hearts  are  in  treaty,  and  the  soul  doth  take 
That  oath,  which,  unabsolved,  must  stand  till  death, 
With  icy  seal,  doth  stamp  the  scroll  of  life. 
No  word !  no  sound  !     But  still  yon  holy  man 
With  strong  and  graceful  tresture  doth  impose 
The  irrevocable  vow,  and  with  meek  prayer 
Present  it  to  be  registered  in  Heaven. 

Methinks  this  silence  heavily  doth  brood 
Upon  the  spirit.     Say,  thou  flower-crown'd  bride, 
What  means  the  sigh  which  from  that  ruby  lip 
Doth  'scape,  as  if  to  seek  some  element 
Which  angels  breathe  ? 

Mute !  mute !  'tis  passing  strange ! 
Like  necromancy  all.     And  yet,  'tis  well ; 
For  the  deep  trust,  with  which  a  maiden  casts 
Her  all  of  earth,  perchance  her  all  of  heaven, 
Into  a  mortal's  hand,  the  confidence 
With  which  she  turns  in  every  thought  to  him, 


242        MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

Her  more  than  brother,  and  her  next  to  God, 
Hath  never  yet  been  shadowed  forth  in  sound, 
Or  told  in  language. 

So,  ye  voiceless  pair, 

Pass  on  in  hope.     For  ye  may  build  as  firm 
Your  silent  altar  in  each  other's  hearts, 
And  catch  the  sunshine  through  the  clouds  of  time 
As  cheerily,  as  though  the  pomp  of  speech 
Did  herald  forth  the  deed.     And  when  ye  dwell 
Where  flower  fades  not,  and  death  no  treasured  link 
Hath  power  to  sever  more,  ye  need  not  mourn 
The  ear  sequestrate,  and  the  tuneless  tongue, 
For  there  the  eternal  dialect  of  love 
Is  the  free  breath  of  every  happy  soul. 


243 


TO  A  DYING  INFANT. 


Go  to  thy  rest,  my  child ! 

Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed, 
Gentle  and  undefiled, 

With  blessings  on  thy  head ; 
Fresh  roses  in  thy  hand, 

Buds  on  thy  pillow  laid. 
Haste  from  this  fearful  land, 

Where  flowers  so  quickly  fade. 

Before  thy  heart  might  learn 

In  waywardness  to  stray, 
Before  thy  foot  could  turn 

The  dark  and  downward  way  \ 
Ere  sin  might  wound  the  breast, 

Or  sorrow  wake  the  tear, 
Rise  to  thy  home  of  rest, 

In  yon  celestial  sphere. 

Because  thy  smile  was  fair 
Thy  lip  and  eye  so  bright, 
21 


244  TO  A  DYING  INFANT. 

Because  thy  cradle-care 
Was  such  a  fond  delight, 

Shall  Love,  with  weak  embrace, 
Thy  heavenward  flight  detain  ? 

No !  Angel,  seek  thy  place 
Amid  yon  cherub-tram. 


245 


THE  DYING  PHILOSOPHER. 


I  HAVE  crept  forth  to  die  among  the  trees. 

They  have  s\\eet  voices  that  I  love  to  hear, 

Sweet,  lute-like  voices.     They  have  been  as  friends 

In  my  adversity — when  sick  and  faint 

I  stretched  me  in  their  shadow  all  day  long, 

They  were  not  weary  of  me.     They  sent  down 

Soft  summer  breezes,  fraught  with  pitying  sighs, 

To  fan  my  blanching  cheek.     Their  lofty  boughs 

Pointed  with  thousand  fingers  to  the  sky, 

And  round  their  trunks  the  wild  vine  fondly  clung, 

Nursing  her  clusters ;  and  they  did  not  check 

Her  clasping  tendrils,  nor  deceive  her  trust, 

Nor  blight  her  blossoms,  and  go  towering  up 

In  their  cold  stateliness,  while  on  the  earth 

She  sank  to  die. 

But  thou,  rejoicing  bird, 

Why  pourest  thou  such  a  rich  and  mellow  lay 
On  my  dull  ear  ?     Poor  bird ! — I  gave  thee  crumbs, 
And  fed  thy  nested  little  ones !  so  thou 
(Unlike  to  man !)  thou  dost  remember  it. 


246  THE  DYING  PHILOSOPHER. 

O  mine  own  race ! — how  often  have  ye  sate 
Gathered  around  my  table,  shared  my  cup, 
And  worn  my  raiment — yea,  far  more  than  this, 
Been  sheltered  in  my  bosom,  but  to  turn 
And  lift  the  heel  against  me,  and  cast  out 
My  bleeding  heart  in  morsels  to  the  worfd, 
Like  catering  cannibals. 

Take  me  not  back 

To  those  imprisoning  curtains,  broidered  thick 
With  pains,  beneath  whose  sleepless  canopy 
I've  pined  away  so  long.     The  purchased  care. 
The  practised  sympathy,  the  fawning  tone 
Of  him  who  on  my  vesture  casteth  lots, 
The  weariness,  the -secret  measuring 
How  long  I  have  to  live,  the  guise  of  grief 
So  coarsely  worn — I  would  not  longer  brook 
Such  torturing  ministry.     Let  me  die  here — 
'Tis  but  a  little  while.     Let  me  die  here. 
Have  patience,  Nature,  with  thy  feeble  son, 
So  soon  to  be  forgot,  and  from  thine  arms, 
Thou  gentle  mother,  from  thy  true  embrace, 
Let  my  freed  spirit  pass. 

Alas !  how  vain 

The  wreath  that  Fame  would  bind  around  our  tomb — 
The  winds  shall  waste  it,  and  the  worms  destroy, 
While  from  its  home  of  bliss  the  disrobed  soul 
Looks  not  upon  its  greenness,  nor  deplores 
Its  withering  loss.     Thou  who  hast  toiled  to  earn 


THE  DYING  PHILOSOPHER.  247 

The  fickle  praise  of  far  posterity, 

Come,  weigh  it  at  the  grave's  brink,  here  with  me, 

If  thou  canst  weigh  a  dream. 

Hail,  holy  stars ! 

Heaven's  stainless  watchers  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 
Look  down  once  more  upon  me.     When  again, 
In  solemn  night's  dark  regency,  ye  ope 
Your  searching  eyes,  me  shall  ye  not  behold 
Among  the  living.     Let  me  join  the  song 
With  which  ye  sweep  along  your  glorious  way ; 
Teach  me  your  hymn  of  praise.     What  have  I  said  ? 
I  will  not  learn  of  you,  for  ye  shall  fall. 
Lo !  with  swift  wing  I  mount  above  your  spheres, 
To  see  the  Invisible,  to  know  the  Unknown, 
To  love  the  Uncreated !     Earth,  farewell ! 


248 


DEATH  OF  THE  EMIGRANT. 


"  THE  way  is  long,"  the  father  said, 
While  through  the  western  wild  he  sped, 

With  eager,  searching  eye  ; 
"  Cheer  ye,  my  babes,"  the  mother  cried, 
And  drew  them  closer  to  her  side, 

As  frown'd  the  evening  sky. 

Just  then,  within  the  thicket  rude, 
A  log-rear'd  cabin's  roof  they  view'd, 

And  its  low  shelter  blest, 
On  the  rough  floor,  their  simple  bed, 
In  weariness  and  haste  they  spread, 

And  laid  them  down  to  rest. 

On  leathern  hinge,  the  doors  were  hung. 
Undeck'd  with  glass  the  casement  swung 

The  smoke-wreath  stain'd  the  wall ; 
And  here  they  found  their  only  home, 
Who  once  had  ruPd  the  spacious  dome, 

Anil  pac'd  the  pictur'd  hall. 


DEATH  OF  THE  EMIGRANT.  249 

But  hearts  with  pure  affections  warm, 
Unmurmuring  at  the  adverse  storm. 

Did  in  that  cell  abide, 
And  there  the  wife  her  husband  cheer'd, 
And  there  her  little  ones  she  rear'd, 

And  there  in  hope  she  died. 

Still  the  lone  man  his  toil  pursued, 
While  'neath  his  roof  so  low  and  rude, 

A  gentle  daughter  rose, 
As  peering  through  some  rifted  rock, 
Or  blooming  on  a  broken  stock, 

The  blushing  sweet  briar  grows. 

With  tireless  hand,  the  board  she  spread, 
The  Holy  Book  at  evening  read, 

And  when,  with  serious  air, 
He  saw  her  bend  so  sweetly  mild 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  moaning  child, 

He  bless'd  her  in  his  prayer. 

But  stern  disease  his  footsteps  staid, 
And  down  the  woodman's  axe  he  laid, 

The  fever-flame  was  high  ; 
No  more  the  forest  fear'd  his  stroke, 
He  fell,  as  falls  the  rugged  oak, 

Beneath  the  whirlwind's  eye. 


P50  DEATH  OF  THE  EMIGRANT. 

His  youngest  girl,  his  fondest  pride, 
His  baby,  when  the  mother  died, 

How  desolate  she  stands! 
While  gazing  on  his  death  struck  eye 
His  kneeling  sons  with  anguish  cry, 

And  clasp  his  clenching  hands. 

Who  hastes  his  throbbing  head  to  hold  ? 
Who  bows  to  chafe  his  temples  cold 

In  beauty's  opening  prime  ? 
That  blessed  daughter  meek  of  heart, 
Who  for  his  sake  a  matron's  part 

Had  borne  before  her  time. 

That  gasp,  that  groan,  'tis  o'er,  'tis  o'er, 
The  manly  breast  must  heave  no  more. 

The  heart  no  longer  pine : 
Oh,  thou,  who  feed'st  the  raven's  nest, 
Confirm  once  more  thy  promise  blest, 

"  The  fatherless  are  mine." 


251 


FILIAL  CLAIMS. 


WHO  bendeth  with  meek  eye,  and  bloodless  cheek 

Thus  o'er  the  new-born  babe  ?  content  to  take, 

As  payment  for  all  agony  and  pain, 

Its  first  soft  kiss,  its  first  breath  on  her  brow. 

The  first  faint  pressure  of  its  tiny  hand  ? 

It  is  not  needful  that  I  speak  the  name 

Of  that  one  being  on  this  earth,  whose  love 

Doth  never  falter. 

Answer  me,  young  man, 

Thou,  who  through  chance  and  change  of  time  hast  t:od 
Thus  far,  when  some  with  vengeful  wrath  have  mark'd 
Thy  waywardness,  or  in  thy  time  of  woe 
Deserted  thee,  or  with  a  rainbow  smile 
Lur'd  and  forsook,  or  on  thine  errors  scowl'd 
With  unforgiving  memory — did  she  ? 
Thy  Mother  ? 

Child  !  in  whose  rejoicing  heart 
The  cradle-scene  is  fresh,  the  lulling  hymn 
Still  clearly  echoed,  when  the  blight  of  age 
Withereth  that  bosom  where  thine  head  doth  lay, 


252  FILIAL  CLAIMS. 

When  pain  shall  paralyse  the  arm  that  clasps 

Thy  form  so  tenderly,  wilt  thou  forget? 

Wilt  thou  be  weary,  though  long  years  should  ask 

The  patient  offices  of  love  to  gird 

A  broken  mind  ? 

Turn  back  the  book  of  life 

To  its  first  page.     What  deep  trace  meets  thee  there  ? 
Lines  from  a  Mothers  pencil.     When  her  scroll 
Of  life  is  finish'd,  when  the  hand  of  Death 
Stamps  that  strong  seal,  which  none  but  God  can  break, 
What  should  its  last  trace  be  ? 

Thy  bending  form 

In  sleepless  love,  the  dying  couch  beside, 
Thy  tender  hand  upon  the  closing  eye, 
Thy  kiss  upon  the  lips,  thy  prayer  to  Heaven, 
The  chasten'd  rendering  of  thy  filial  trust, 
Back  to  the  white-wing'd  angel  ministry. 


253 


THE  ANGEL'S  SONG. 


''They  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven,  saying,  Come  up  hither." 


Ye  have  a  land  of  mist  and  shade, 

Where  spectres  roam  at  will, 
Dense  clouds  your  mountain  cliffs  pervade. 

And  damps  your  valleys  chill ; 
But  ne'er  has  midnight's  wing  of  woe 

Eclipsed  our  changeless  ray  ; 
"  Come  hither,"  if  ye  seek  to  know 

The  bliss  of  perfect  day. 

Doubt,  like  the  bohan-upas,  spreads 

A  blight  where'er  ye  tread, 
And  Hope,  a  wailing  mourner,  sheds 

The  tear  o'er  harvests  dead  ; 
With  us,  no  traitorous  foe  assails 

When  love  her  home  would  make ; 
In  Heaven,  the  welcome  never  fails, 

"  Come,"  and  that  warmth  partake. 


254  THE  ANGEL'S  SONO. 

Time  revels  'mid  your  boasted  joys, 

Death  dims  your  brighest  rose, 
And  sin  your  bower  of  peace  destroys — 

Where  will  ye  find  repose  ? 
Ye're  wearied  in  your  pilgrim-race, 

Sharp  thorns  your  path  infest, 
"  Come  hither," — rise  to  our  embrace, 

And  Christ  shall  give  you  rest. 

'Twas  thus,  methought,  at  twilight  hour 

The  angel's  lay  came  down ; 
Like  dews  upon  the  drooping  flower, 

When  droughts  of  s'tlmmer  frown ; 
How  richly  o'er  the  ambient  air 

Swelled  out  that  music  free ! 
Oh ! — when  the  pangs  of  death  I  bear, 

Sing  ye  that  song  to  me. 


255 


THE  CONSUMPTIVE  GIRL. 


FROM  A  PICTURE. 


THOU  may'st  not  raise  her  from  that  couch,  kind  nurse, 
To  bind  those  clustering  tresses,  or  to  press 
The  accustomed  cordial.     Thou  no  more  shalt  feel 
Her  slight  arms  twining  faintly  round  thy  neck 
To  prop  her  weakness.     That  low  whispered  tone 
No  more  can  thank  thee,  but  the  earnest  eye 
Speaks,  with  its  tender  glance,  of  all  thy  care 
By  night  and  day.     Henceforth  thy  mournful  task 
Is  brief:  to  wipe  the  cold  and  starting  dew 
From  that  pure  brow,  to  touch  the  parching  lip 
With  the  cool  water-drop — and  guide  the  breeze 
That,  fragrant,  through  her  flowers,  comes  travelling  on 
Freshly  to  lift  the  poor  heart's  broken  valve, 
Which  gasping  waits  its  doom. 

Mother !  thy  lot 

Hath  been  a  holy  one ;  upon  thy  breast 
To  cherish  that  fair  bud,  to  share  its  bloom, 
Refresh  its  languor  with  the  rain  of  Heaven, 
And  give  it  back  to  God.     The  hour  is  come. 
Thy  sleepless  night-watch  o'er  her  infancy 
22 


256  THE  CONSUMPTIVE  GIRL. 

Bore  its  own  payment.     Thou  hast  never  known 
For  her,  thy  child,  burden,  or  toil,  or  pang, 
But  what  the  full  fount  of  maternal  love 
Did  wash  away,  leaving  those  diamond  sands 
Which  memory  from  her  precious  casket  strews. 
Behold,  her  darkening  eye  doth  search  for  thee ! 
As  the  bowed  violet  through  some  chilling  screen 
Turns  toward  the  sun  that  cheered  it.     Well  thine  heart 
Hath  read  its  language  from  her  cradle-hour, 
What  saith  it  now  ? 

"  Oh  mother  dear ;  farewell ! 
I  go  to  Jesus.     Early  didst  thou  teach 
My  soul  the  way,  from  yonder  Book  of  Heaven. 
Come  soon  to  me,  sweet  guide." 

Ah,  gather  up 

The  glimmering  radiance  of  that  parting  smile — 
Prolong  the  final  kiss — hang  fondly  o'er 
The  quivering  pressure  of  that  marble  hand, 
Those  last,  deep  tokens  of  a  daughter's  love. 
Weep,  but  not  murmur.     She  no  more  shall  pine 
Before  thine  eyes  in  smothered  agony, 
And  waste  away,  and  wear  the  hectic  flush 
That  cheats  so  long,  to  wake  a  keener  pain. 
Beside  thy  hearth  she  is  a  guest  no  more ; 
But  in  Heaven's  beauty  shalt  thou  visit  her, 
In  Heaven's  high  health. 

Call  her  no  longer  thine. 
Thou  could'st  not  keep  Consumption's  moth  away 


THE  CONSUMPTIVE  GIRL.  257 

From  her  frail  web  of  life.     Thou  could'st  not  guard 
Thy  darling  from  the  lion.     All  thy  love, 
In  the  best  armor  of  its  sleepless  might, 
The  spoiler  trampled  as  a  reed.     Give  thanks 
That  she  is  safe  with  Him  who  hath  the  power 
O'er  pain,  and  sin,  and  death.     Mourner,  give  thanks. 


258 


INDIAN  NAMES. 


"  How  can  the  Red  men  be  forgotten,  while  so  many  ol  our 
states  and  territories,  bays,  lakes  and  rivers,  are  indelibly  stamped 
by  names  of  their  giving  ?" 


YE  say,  they  all  have  passed  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave, 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  off  the  crested  wave; 
That  'mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout ; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'Tis  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  Ocean's  surge  is  curl'd, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world, 


INDIAN  NAMES.  259 

Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tributes  from  the  west, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say,  their  cone-like  cabins, 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  fled  away  like  withered  leaves 

Before  the  autumn  gale  : 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it     - 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  her  young  renown ; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathed  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachuset  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart; 


260  INDIAN  NAMES. 

Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 
Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust, 

Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 
Though  ye  destroy  their  dust 


261 


THE  MARTYR  OF  SCIO. 


BRIGHT  summer  reign'd  in  Scio.     Gay  she  hung 

Her  coronal  upon  the  olive  groves, 

Flushed  the  rich  clusters  on  the  ripening  vines, 

And  shook  fresh  fragrance  from  the  citron  boughs, 

Till  every  breeze  was  satiate.     But  the  sons 

Of  that  fair  isle  bore  winter  in  their  soul. 

'Mid  the  proud  temples  of  their  ancestors, 

And  through  the  weeping  mastic  bowers,  their  step 

Was  like  the  man  who  hears  the  oppressor's  voice 

In  Nature's  softest  echo ;  for  the  Turk 

In  sullen  domination  sternly  roamed 

Where  mighty  Homer  awed  the  listening  world. 

Once  to  the  proud  divan,  with  stately  step, 
A  youth  drew  near.     Surpassing  beauty  sate 
Upon  his  princely  brow,  and  from  his  eye 
A  glance  like  lightning  parted  as  he  spake. 

u  I  had  a  jewel.     From  my  sires  it  came 
In  long  transmission  ;  and  upon  my  soul 


262  THE  MARTYR  OF  SC1O. 

There  was  a  bond  to  keep  it  for  my  sons. 

'Tis  gone — and  in  its  place  a  false  one  shines, — 

I  ask  for  justice." 

Brandishing  aloft 

His  naked  scimitar,  the  Cadi  cried, 
«  By  Allah  and  his  Prophet !  guilt  like  this 
Shall  feel  the  avenger's  stroke.     Show  me  the  wretrh 
Who  robbed  thy  casket." 

Then  the  appellant  tore 
The  turban  from  his  head,  and  cast  it  down ; 
"Lo!  the  false  jewel  see.     And  would'st  thou  know 
Whose  fraud  exchanged  it  for  my  precious  gem  ? 
Thou  art  the  man.     My  birth-right  was  the  faith 
Of  Jesus  Christ,  which  thou  hast  stolen  away 
With  hollow  words.     Take  back  thy  tinselled  bait 
And  let  me,  sorrowing,  seek  my  Saviour's  fold. 
Tempted  I  was,  and  madly  have  I  fallen — 
Oh,  give  me  back  my  faith." 

And  there  he  stood, 

The  stately-born  of  Scio,  in  whose  veins 
Stirred  the  high  blood  of  Greece.     There  was  a  pause, 
A  haughty  lifting  up  of  Turkish  brows, 
In  wonder  and  in  scorn  ;  a  hissing  tone 
Of  wrath  precursive,  and  a  stern  reply — 

u  The  faith  of  Moslem,  or  the  sabre-stroke  : 
Choose  thee,  young  Greek  !" 

Then  rose  his  lofty  form 
In  all  its  majesty,  and  his  deep  voice 


THE  MARTYR  OF  SCIO.  263 

Rang  out  sonorous  as  a  triumph-song, 
4  Give  back  my  faith  !" 

A  pale  torch  faintly  gleamed 
Throuch  niche  and  window  of  a  lonely  church, 
And  thence  the  wailing  of  a  stifled  dirge 
Rose  sad  o'er  midnight's  ear.     A  corpse  was  there — 
And  a  young  beauteous  creature,  kneeling  low 
In  speechless  grief.     Her  wealth  of  raven  locks 
Swept  o'er  the  dead  man's  brow,  as  there  she  laid 
The  withered  bridal  crown,  while  every  hope 
That  at  its  twining  woke,  and  every  joy 
Young  love  in  fond  idolatry  had  nursed, 
Perished  that  hour. 

Feebly  she  raised  her  child, 
And  bade  him  kiss  his  father.     But  the  boy 
Shrank  back  in  horror  from  the  clotted  blood, 
And  wildly  clasped  his  hands  with  such  a  cry 
Of  piercing  anguish  that  each  heart  recoiled 
From  his  impassioned  woe.     Yet  there  was  one 
Unmoved, — one  white-haired,  melancholy  man, 
Who  stood  in  utter  desolation  forth, 
Silent  and  solemn,  like  some  lonely  tower. 
Though  from  his  tearless  eye  there  flash'd  a  flame 
Of  Helle's  ancient  glory  unsubdued  : — 
That  Sciote  martyr  was  his  only  son 


264 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 


TOIL  on!  toil  on!  ye  ephemeral  train, 

Who  build  on  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main ; 

Toil  on !  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 

With  your  sand-based  structures,  and  domes  of  rock ; 

Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave, 

And  your  arches  spring  up  through  the  crested  wave 

Ye're  a  puny  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 

A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone, 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone ; 
Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring, 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king; 
-The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled, 
O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold, 
The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 
And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  kirk  ? 


THE  CORAL  INSECT.  265 

There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field ; 
'Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the  flowers  are  up ; 
There's  a  poison  drop  in  marl's  purest  cup ; 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle-breath, 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold, 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold ; 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  'mid  their  halls  of  glee : 
Hath  earth  no  graves  ?  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  with  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build !  ye. build !  but  ye  enter  not  in ; 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their  sin 

From  the  land  of  promise,  ye  fade  and  die, 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  wearied  eye. 

As  the  cloud-crowned  pyramids'  founders  sleep 

Noteless  and  lost  in  oblivion  deep, 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  desolate  main, 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain 


260 


MISTAKES. 


"  Every  thing  that  is  high,  is  not  holy ;  nor  every  desire  pure ; 
nor  all  that  is  sweet,  good ;  nor  every  thing  that  is  dear  to  man, 
pleasing  to  God." — THOMAS  A  KEMPIS. 


MIGHT  we  but  view  the  shore 
Of  this  dim  world,  as  from  heaven's  hill  it  gleams, 
How  should  we  blame  the  tear  unduly  shed, 
And  tax  the  truant  joy!     Plow  should  we  see 
Amaz'd,  our  own  mistakes  : — the  lowly  tomb 
(Of  our  lost  idols  blooming  thick  with  flowers 
Such  as  the  seraph's  bosom  bears  above, 
And  the  steep  cliff  where  we  have  madly  blown 
Ambition's  victor-trump,  with  storm-clouds  crown'd 
To  wreck  the  unwary  soul : — wealth's  hoarded  gold, 
Eternal  poverty ;  and  the  meek  prayer 
Of  him  who  knew  not  where  to  lay  his  head, 
An  heritage  of  glory. 

Each  desire 
Fed  to  fruition,  till  the  satiate  heart 


MISTAKES. 

Is  gorg'd  with  richness,  sows  it  not  the  seeds 
Of  sickness  there  ? — while  he  whose  only  rest 
Was  on  a  spear-point,  who  might  ask  for  bread 
Only  to  find  a  stone,  gain'd  he  not  thus 
A  mansion  in  the  amaranthine  bowers 
Of  love  divine  ? 

Prosperity,  alas ! 

Is  often  but  another  name  for  pride, 
And  selfishness,  which  scorns  another's  woe  ; 
While  our  keen  disappointments  are  the  food 
Of  that  humility  which  entereth  Heaven, 
Finding  itself  at  home.     The  things  we  mourn, 
Work  our  eternal  gain.     Then  let  our  joys 
Be  tremulous  as  the  Mimosa's  leaf, 
And  each  affliction  with  a  serious  smile 
Be  welcom'd  in  at  the  heart's  open  door, 
As  the  good  patriarch  met  his  muffled  guests 
And  found  them  angels. 


23 


268 


«  ONLY  THIS  ONCE." 

EXODUS,  x.  17. 


a  ONLY  this  once." — the  wine-cup  glowed 
All  sparkling  with  its  ruby  ray, 

The  bacchanalian  welcome  flowed, 
And  Folly  made  the  revel  gay. 

Then  he,  so  long,  so  deeply  warned, 
The  sway  of  conscience  rashly  spurned, 

His  promise  of  repentance  scorned, 
And,  coward-like,  to  vice  returned. 

"Only  this  once." — The  tale  is  told— 
He  wildly  quaffed  the  poisonous  tide ; 

With  more  than  Esau's  madness,  sold 
The  birth-right  of  his  soul — and  died. 

I  do  not  say  that  breath  forsook 
The  clay,  and  left  its  pulses  dead, 

But  reason  in  her  empire  shook, 
And  all  the  life  of  life  was  fled. 


ONLY  THIS  ONCE.  269 

Again  his  eyes  the  landscape  viewed, 

His  limbs  again  their  burden  bore. 
And  years  their  wonted  course  renewed, 

But  hope  and  peace  returned  no  more. 

Then  angel  eyes  with  pity  wept 

When  he  whom  virtue  fain  would  save, 

His  sacred  vow  so  falsely  kept, 

And  strangely  sought  a  drunkard's  grave. 

"  Only  this  once." — Beware — Beware ! — 

Gaze  not  upon  the  blushing  wine, 
Repel  temptation's  siren  snare, 

And  prayerful,  seek  for  strength  divine. 


270 


POMPEII. 


On  reading  the  "  Tour  in  Italy  and  Switzerland"  of  the  late  Rev. 
E.  D   Griffin. 


IT  was  the  evening  of  the  day  of  God, 
And  silence  reigned  around.     The  waning  lamp 
Gleamed  heavily,  and  gathering  o'er  my  heart 
There  seemed  a  musing  sadness. 

Then  thou  cam'st, 

Ethereal  spirit !  on  thy  classic  wing, 
Bidding  me  follow  thee. 

And  so  I  sought 

The  ruined  cities  of  Italia's  plain, 
And  with  thee  o'er  Pompeii's  ashes  trod, 
Courting  the  friendship  of  a  buried  world. 

'Tis  fearful  to  behold  the  tide  of  life 
In  all  the  tossings  of  its  fervid  strength 
Thus  petrified,  and  every  painted  bark, 
That  spread  its  gay  sail  o'er  the  rippling  surge 
Sealed  to  its  depths. 


POMPFTT.  2 

Thou  haggard  skeleton, 

Clutching  with  bony  hand  thy  hoarded  gold. 
What  boots  it  thus  those  massy  keys  to  guard 
When  life's  frail  key  turns  in  its  ward  no  more  ? 
Say !  hadst  thou  nought   amid   yon  wreck,  more  dear 
Than  that  encumbering  dross  ?  no  priceless  wealth 
Of  sweet  affinity,  no  tender  claim, 
No  eager  turning  of  fond  eyes  to  thine, 
In  that  last  hour  of  dread  extremity  ? 

Lo !  yon  grim  soldier,  faithful  at  his  post, 
Bold  and  unblenching,  though  a  sea  of  fire 
Closed  o'er  him  with  its  suffocating  wave. 
The  reeking  air  grew  hot,  the  blackened  heavens 
Shrank  like  a  shriveled  scroll,  and  mother  earth, 
Forgetful  of  her  love,  a  traitress  turned. 
Yet  still  lie  fled  not ;  though  each  element 
Swerved  from  the  eternal  law,  he  firmly  stood 
A  Roman  Sentinel. 

Thus  may  we  stand 
In  duty's  armor,  at  our  hour  of  doom, 
Though  on  the  climax  of  our  joy,  stern  Death 
Should  steal  unlocked  for,  as  the  lightning  flash 
Rending  the  summer-cloud. 

But  now,  adieu, 

My  sainted  guide.     The  midnight  hour  doth  warn 
Me  from  thy  cherished  pages,  though  mcthinks 
The  beauty  of  thy  presence,  and  thy  voice, 
Whose  tones  melodious,  charmed  a  listening  throng, 
23* 


272  POMPEII. 

Still  linger  near.     It  is  not  meet  for  us 
To  call  thee  brother,  we  who  dwell  in  clay, 
And  find  the  impress  of  the  earth  so  strong 
Upon  our  purest  gold. 

Spirit  of  bliss ! 

Twining  thyself  around  the  living  heart 
By  holiest  memories,  my  prayer  this  night 
Shall  be  a  hymn  of  gratitude  for  thee. 


273 


FEMALE  EDUCATION  FOR  GREECE 


WHY  break'st  thou  thus  the  tomb  of  ancient  night, 
Thou  blind  old  bard,  majestic  and  alone  ? 
Whose  sightless  eyes  have  iill'd  the  world  with  light, 
Such  light  as  fades  not  with  the  set  of  sun, 
Light  that  the  kindled  soul  doth  feed  upon, 
When  with  her  harp  she  soars  o'er  mortal  things, 
And  from  heaven's  gate  doth  win  some  echoed  tcne, 
And  fit  it  deftly  to  her  raptur'd  strings, 
And  wake  the  sweet  response,  tho'  earth  with  discord 
rings. 

And  lo !  the  nurtur'd  in  the  Theban  bower, 
Impetuous  Pindar,  mad  with  tuneful  ire, 
Whose  hand  abrupt  could  rule  with  peerless  power 
The  linked  sweetness  of  the  Doric  lyre ; 
lie,  too,  whom  History  graves  with  pen  of  fire 
First  on  her  chart, — the  eloquent,  the  mild, 
Down  at  whose  feet  she  sitteth  as  her  sire, 
Listing  his  legends  like  a  charmed  child, 
Clear  as  the  soul  of  truth,  yet  rob'd  in  fancy  wild. 


271  FEMAT.F.  F.THTATTON   FOR 

And  them,  meek  martyr  to  the  hemlock  draught, 
Whose  fearless  voice  for  truth  and  virtue  strove, 
Whose  stainless  life,  and  death  serene,  have  taught 
The  Christian  world  to  wonder  and  to  love,  — 
Come  forth,  with  Plato,  from  thy  hallo  w'd  grove, 
And  bring  that  golden  chain  by  Time  unriven, 
Which  round  this  pendent  universe  ye  wove, 
For  still  our  homage  to  your  lore  is  given, 
And  your  pure  wisdom  priz'd,  next  to  the  page  of  heaven. 

See,  gathering  round,  high  shades  of  glorious  birth 
Do  throng  the  scene.     Hath  aught  disturbed  their  resi 
Why  brings  Philosophy  her  idols  forth 
With  pensive  brow,  in  solemn  silence  drest  ? 
And  see  he  comes,  who  o'er  the  sophist's  crest 
Did  pour  the  simple  element  of  light, 
Reduce  the  complex  thought  to  reason's  test, 
And  stand  severe  in  intellectual  might,  — 
Undazzled,  undeceiv'd,  the  peerless  Stagyrite. 


Those  demi-gods  of  Greece!     How  sad  they 
Where,  temple-crown'd,  the  Acropolis  aspires, 
Or  green  Hymettus  rears  her  honied  grove, 
Or  glows  the  Parthenon  'neath  sunset  fires, 
Or  where  the  olive,  ere  its  prime,  expires 
By  Moslem  hatred  scath'd.     Melhinks  they  seem 
Westward  to  gaze,  with  unreveal'd  desires, 


FEMALE  EDUCATION  FOR  GREECE.        '^7 

Whether  they  roam  by  pure  Ilyssus'  stream, 
Or  haunt  with  troubled  step  the  shades  of  Academe 

Seek  ye  the  West  ? — that  land  of  noteless  birth, 
That  when  proud  Athens  rul'd  with  regal  sway 
All  climes  and  kindreds  of  the  awe-struck  earth. 
Still  in  its  cold,  mysterious  cradle  lay, 
Till  the  world-finder  rent  the  veil  away, 
And  quelPd  the  red-brow'd  hunters'  savage  tone  ? 
Turn  ye  to  MS,  young  emmets  of  a  day, 
Who  flit  admiring  round  your  ancient  throne  ? 
Seek  ye  a  boon  of  us, — the  nameless,  the  unknown  ? 

We,  who  have  blest  you  with  our  lisping  tongue, 
And  to  your  baptism  bow'd  when  life  was  new, 
And,  when  upon  our  mother's  breast  we  hung, 
Your  flowing  nectar  with  our  life-stream  drew, 
Who  dipp'd  our  young  feet  in  Castalian  dew, 
And  pois'd  with  tiny  arm  that  lance  and  shield 
Before  whose  might  the  boastful  Persian  flew, 
We,  who  Ulysses  trac'd  o'er  flood  and  field, 
What  can  ye  ask  of  us,  we  would  not  joy  to  yield  ? 

Ye  ask  no  warrior's  aid, — the  Turk  hath  fled, 
And  on  your  throne  Bavaria's  prince  reclines, — 
No  gold  or  gems,  their  dazzling  light  to  shed, 
Pearl  from  the  sea,  nor  diamond  from  the  mines; — 
Ye  ask  that  ray  from  Learning's  lamp  which  shines, 


276         FEMALE  EDUCATION  FOR  GREECE. 

To  guide  your  sons,  so  long  in  error  blind, — 
The  cry  speeds  forth  from  yon  embowering  vines, 
"Give  bread  and  water  to  the  famish'd  mind, 
And  from  its  durance  dark,  the  imprison'cl  soul  unbind." 

Behold  the  Apostle  of  the  Cross  sublime ! 
The  warned  of  heaven,  the  eloquent,  the  bold, 
Who  spake  to  Athens  in  her  hour  of  prime, 
Braving  the  thunders  of  Olympus  old, 
And  spreading  forth  the  Gospel's  snowy  fold, 
Where  heathen  altars  pour'd  a  crimson  tide, 
And  stern  tribunals  their  decrees  unroll'd ; 
How  would  his  zeal  rebuke  our  ingrate  pride, 
If  ye  should  sue  to  us  and  coldly  be  denied. 

Explores  your  eagle-glance  that  weaker  band 
Who  bear  the  burdens  of  domestic  care  ? 
Who  guide  the  distaff  with  a  patient  hand, 
And  trim  the  evening  hearth  with  cheerful  air  ? 
Point  ye  the  Attic  maid,  the  matron  fair, 
The  blooming  child  devoid  of  letter'd  skill  ? 
What  would  ye  ask  ?     Wild  winds  the  answer  bear, 
In  blended  echoes  from  the  Aonian  hill, — 
"  Give  them  the  book  of  God  ?"    Immortal  shades  ! — we 
will 


277 


THE  BRIDE. 


I  CAME,  but  she  was  gone. 

In  her  fair  home, 

There  lay  her  lute,  just  as  she  touch'd  it  last, 
At  summer  twilight,  when  the  woodbine  cups 
FilPd  with  pure  fragrance.     On  her  favorite  seat 
Lay  the  still-open  work-box,  and  that  book 
Which  last  she  read,  its  pencil'd  margin  mark'd 
By  an  ill-quoted  passage — trac'd,  perchance 
With  hand  unconscious,  while  her  lover  spake 
That  dialect,  which  brings  forgetfulness 
Of  all  beside.     It  was  the  cherish'd  home, 
Where  from  her  childhood,  she  had  been  the  star 
Ol  hope  and  joy. 

I  came — and  she  was  gone. 
Yet  I  had  seen  her  from  the  altar  led, 
With  silvery  veil  but  slightly  swept  aside, 
The  fresh,  young  rose-bud  deepening  in  her  cheek, 
And  on  her  brow  the  sweet  and  solemn  thought 
Of  one  who  gives  a  priceless  gift  away. 


278  THE  BRIDE. 

And  there  was  silence  mid  the  gather'd  throng. 
The  stranger,  and  the  hard  of  heart,  did  draw 
Their  breath  supprest,  to  see  the  mother's  lip 
Turn  ghastly  pale,  and  the  majestic  sire 
Shrink  as  with  smother'd  sorrow,  when  he  gave 
His  darling  to  an  untried  guardianship, 
And  to  a  far  off  clime. 

Haply  his  thought 

Travers'd  the  grass-grown  prairies,  and  the  shore 
Of  the  cold  lakes  ;  or  those  o'erhanging  cliffs, 
And  pathless  mountain  tops,  that  rose  to  bar 
Her  log-rear'd  mansion  from  the  anxious  eye 
Of  kindred  and  of  friend.     Even  triflers  felt 
How  strong  and  beautiful  is  woman's  love, 
That,  taking  in  its  hand  its  thornless  joys, 
The  tenderest  melodies  of  tuneful  years, 
Yea!  and  its  own  life  also — lays  them  all, 
Meek  and  unblenching,  on  a  mortal's  breast, 
Reserving  nought,  save  that  unspoken  hope 
Which  hath  its  root  in  God. 

Mock  not  with  mirth, 
A  scene,  like  this,  ye  laughter-loving  ones; 
The  licens'd  jester's  lip,  the  dancer's  heel — 
What  do  they  here  ? 

Joy,  serious  and  sublime, 
Such  as  doth  nerve  the  energies  of  prayer, 
Should  swell  the  bosom,  when  a  maiden's  hand, 


THE  BRIDE. 


279 


FilPd  with  life's  dewy  flow'rets,  girdeth  on 
That  harness,  which  the  ministry  of  Death 
Alone  unlooseth,  but  whose  fearful  power 
May  stamp  the  sentence  of  Eternity. 


24 


280 


THE  GIFT  OK  APOLLO. 


A  legend  of  ancient  mythology  relates,  that  the  inhabitants  ol 
Methymnia,  on  the  island  of  Lesbos,  received  from  Apollo  a  genius 
for  music  and  poetry,  as  a  mark  of  his  gratitude  for  having  extended 
the  rights  of  burial  to  the  sever'd  head  of  Orpheus. 


WHEN  Orpheus'  limbs,  by  Thracian  madness  torn, 
Down  the  cold  Hebrus'  sounding  floods  were  borne. 
The  blood-stain'd  lips  in  tuneful  measures  sigh'd, 
And  murmur'd  music  charm'd  the  listening  tide. 


Thus  roam'd  the  head,  complaining  and  distrest, 
Till  Lesbian  bands  beheld  the  approaching  guest, 
And  with  indignant  sorrow,  shuddering  bore 
The  mangled  victim  to  their  verdant  shore, 
With  fragrant  streams  the  quivering  temples  lave, 
And  cleanse  the  tresses  from  the  briny  wave, 
Spread  a  soft  pillow  in  the  earth's  green  breast, 
And  with  low  dirges  lull  its  woes  to  rest. 


TIIE  GIFT  OF  APOLLO.  281 

Then  from  the  tossing  surge,  his  lyre  they  gain, 
A  treasur'd  trophy  for  Apollo's  fane, 
Round  its  fair  frame  funereal  garlands  bind, 
And  mourn  its  lord,  to  silent  dust  consign'd. 

But  when  its  chords  the  gales  of  evening  sweep, 
Soft  tones  awake,  and  mystic  voices  weep. 
"  Eurydice !"  in  trembling  love  they  sigh. 
"  Eurydice  !"  the  long-drawn  aisles  reply, 
And  through  the  temple  steals,  in  echoes  low. 
The  mournful  sweetness  of  remember'd  woe. 

Methymnia's  sons,  with  new-felt  warmth  inspir'd, 

By  all  Apollo's  soul  of  song  were  fir'd, 

Pour'd  their  rich  offerings  round  his  golden  shrine, 

Caught  the  rapt  spirit,  and  the  strain  divine, 

While  he  with  smiles  and  priceless  gifts  repaid 

The  men,  whose  pious  rites  appeas'd  his  favourite's  shade. 


282 


METHUSELAH. 


"And  all  the  days  of  Methuselah  were  nine  hundred  sixty  and 
nine  years — and  he  died.'''1 — GENESIS. 


AND  was  this  all  ?     He  died !     He  who  did  wait 
The  slow  unfolding  of  centurial  years, 
And  shake  that  burden  from  his  heart,  which  turns 
Our  temples  -white,  and  in  his  freshness  stand 
Till  cedars  mouldered  and  firm  rocks  grew  gray — 
4Left  he  no  trace  upon  the  page  inspired, 
Save  this  one  line — He  died  ? 

Perchance  he  stood 
Till  all  who  in  his  early  shadow  rose 
Faded  away,  and  he  was  left  alone, 
A  sad,  long-living,  weary-hearted  man, 
To  fear  that  death,  remembering  all  beside, 
Had  sure  forgotten  him. 

Perchance  he  roved 
Exulting  o^er  the  ever-verdant  vales, 


METHUSELAH. 


283 


While  Asia's  sun  burned  fervid  on  his  brow ; 
Or  'neath  some  waving  palm-tree  sate  him  down, 
And  in  his  mantling  bosom  nursed  the  pride 
That  mocks  the  pale  destroyer,  and  doth  iiiJc 
To  live  for  ever. 

What  majestic  plans, 

What  mighty  Babels,  what  sublime  resolves, 
Might  in  that  time-defying  bosom  spring, 
Mature,  and  ripen,  and  cast  off  their  fruits 
For  younger  generations  of  bold  thought 
To  wear  their  harvest  diadem ; — while  we, 
In  the  poor  hour-glass  of  our  seventy  years, 
Scarce  see  the  buds  of  some  few  plants  of  hopes, 
Ere  we  are  laid  beside  them,  dust  to  dust. 

Yet  whatsoe'er  his  lot,  in  that  dim  age 
Of  mystery,  when  the  unwrinkled  world  had  drank 
No  deluge-cup  of  bitterness,  whate'er 
Were  earth's  illusions  to  his  dazzled  eye, 
Death  found  him  out  at  last,  and  coldly  wrote, 
With  icy  pen  on  life's  protracted  scroll, 
Naught  but  this  brief  unflattering  line — He  died. 

Ye  gay  flower-gatherers  on  time's  crumbling  brink, 
This  shall  be  said  of  you,  howe'er  ye  vaunt 
Your  long  to-morrows  in  an  endless  line — 
Howe'er  amid  the  gardens  of  your  joy 
Ye  hide  yourselves,  and  bid  the  pale  King  pass, 
This  shall  be  said  of  you  at  last— He  died ; 
Oh,  add  one  sentence  more — He  lived  to  God 
24* 


284 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS 
CHILDREN. 


COME,  gather  closer  to  my  side, 

My  little  smitten  flock, 
And  I  will  tell  of  him  who  brought 

Pure  water  from  the  rock — 
Who  boldly  led  God's  people  forth 

From  Egypt's  wrath  and  guile, 
And  once  a  cradled  babe  did  float, 

All  helpless  on  the  Nile. 

You're  weary,  precious  ones,  your  eyes 

Are  wandering  far  and  wide — 
Think  ye  of  her  who  knew  so  well 

Your  tender  thought  to  guide  ? 
Who  could  to  Wisdom's  sacred  lore 

Your  fixed  attention  claim  ? 
Ah  !  never  from  your  hearts  erase 

That  blessed  Mother's  name. 


A  FATHER  TO  HI*  M  V|  IIRRLRSS  CHILDREN  28- 

'Tis  time  to  sing  your  evening  hymn, 

My  youngest  infant  clove, 
Come  press  your  velvet  cheek  to  mine, 

And  learn  the  lay  of  love ; 
My  sheltering  arms  can  clasp  you  all, 

My  poor  deserted  throng, 
Cling  as  you  used  to  cling  to  her 

Who  sings  the  angel's  song. 

Begin,  sweet  birds,  the  accustomed  strain, 

Come,  warble  loud  and  clear ; 
Alas  !  alas  !  you're  weeping  all, 

You're  sobbing  in  my  ear ; 
Good-night — go  say  the  prayer  she  taught, 

Beside  your  little  bed, 
The  lips  that  used  to  bless  you  there 

Are  silent  with  the  dead. 

A  father's  hand  your  course  may  guide 

Amid  the  thorns  of  life, 
His  care  protect  those  shrinking  plants 

That  dread  the  storms  of  strife  ; 
But  who,  upon  your  infant  hearts, 

Shall  like  that  mother  write  ? 
Who  touch  the  strings  that  rule  the  soul  ? 

Dear,  smitten  flock,  good  nighl; 


286 


THE  FAITHFUL  DOG. 


SEE!  how  he  strives  to  rescue  from  the  flood, 
The  drowning1  child,  who,  venturous  in  his  play. 
Flung' d  from  the  slippery  footing.     With  what  joy 
The  brave  deliverer,  feels  those  slender  arms 
Convulsive  twining  round  his  brawny  neck, 
And  saves  his  master's  boy. — 

A  zeal  like  this, 

Hath  oft,  amid  St.  Bernard's  blinding  snows, 
Tracked  the  faint  traveller,  or  unseal'd  the  jaws 
Of  the  voracious  avalanche,  plucking  thence 
The  hapless  victim. 

If  thou  hast  a  dog, 

Of  such  a  noble  race,  let  him  not  lack 
Aught  of  the  kind  requital,  that  delights 
His  honest  nature.     When  he  comes  at  eve, 
Laying  his  ample  head  upon  thy  knee, 
And  looking  at  thee,  with  a  glistening  eye, 
Repulse  him  not,  but  let  him,  on  the  rug 
Sleep  fast  and  warm,  beside  thy  parlour  fire. 
The  lion-guard  of  all  thou  lov'st,  is  he, 


THE  FAITHFUL  DOG. 

Yet  bows  his  spirit  at  thy  least  command, 
And  crouches  at  thy  feet.     On  his  broad  back 
He  bears  thy  youngest  darling,  and  endures 
Long,  with  a  wagging  tail,  the  teazing  sport 
Of  each  mischievous  imp.     Enough  for  him, 
That  they  are  thine. 

'Tis  but  an  olden  theme 
To  sing  the  faithful  dog.     The  storied  page 
Full  oft  hath  told  his  tried  fidelity, 
In  legend  quaint.     Yet  if  in  this  our  world 
True  friendship  is  a  scarce  and  chary  plant 
It  might  be  well,  to  stoop  and  sow  its  seed 
Even  in  the  humble  bosom  of  a  brute. 
— Slight  nutriment  it  needs  : — the  kindly  tone, 
The  sheltering  roof,  the  fragments  from  thy  board, 
The  frank  caress,  or  treasured  word  of  praise 
For  deeds  of  loyalty. 

So  mayest  thou  win 

A  willing  servant,  and  an  earnest  friend, 
Faithful  to  death. 


288 


SILENT  DEVOTION. 


"  The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple  ; — let  all  the  Earth  keep  silence 
oefore  him." 


THE  Lord  is  on  his  holy  throne, 

He  sits  in  kingly  state ; 
Let  those  who  for  his  favor  seek, 

In  humble  silence  wait. 

Your  sorrows  to  his  eye  are  known, 

Tour  secret  motives  clear , 
It  needeth  not  the  pomp  of  words, 

To  pour  them  on  his  ear. 

Doth  Death  thy  bosom's  cell  invade? 

Yield  up  thy  flower  of  grass : 
Swells  the  world's  wrathful  billow  high  ? 

Bow  down,  and  let  it  pass. 


SILENT  DEVOTION.  289 

Press  not  thy  purpose  on  thy  God, 

Urge  not  thine  erring  will, 
Nor  dictate  to  the  Eternal  mind, 

Nor  doubt  thy  Maker's  skill. 

True  prayer  is  not  the  noisy  sound 

That  clamorous  lips  repeat, 
But  the  deep  silence  of  a  soul 

That  clasps  Jehovah's  feet 


son 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON 


On  the  laying  of  the  Corner-stone  of  her  Monument  at  Fredericks- 
Durg,  Virginia. 


LONG  hast  thou  slept  unnoted.     Nature  stole 
In  her  soft  ministry  around  thy  bed, 
Spreading  her  vernal  tissue,  violet-gemmed, 
And  pearled  with  dews. 

She  bade  bright  Summer  bring 
Gifts  of  frankincense,  with  sweet  song  of  birds, 
And  Autumn  cast  his  reaper's  coronet 
Down  at  thy  feet,  and  stormy  Winter  speak 
Sternly  of  man's  neglect. 

But  now  we  come 

To  do  thee  homage — mother  of  our  chief! 
Fit  homage — such  as  honoreth  him  who  pays. 

Methinks  we  see  thee — as  in  olden  time — 
Simple  in  garb — majestic  and  serene, 
Unmoved  by  pomp  or  circumstance — in  truth 
Inflexible,  and  with  a  Spartan  zeal 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON.  29, 

Repressing  vice  and  making  folly  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  deem  it  woman's  part  to  waste 
Life  in  inglorious  sioth — to  sport  awhile 
Amid  the  flowers,  or  on  the  summer  wave, 
Then  fleet,  like  the  ephemeron,  away, 
Building  no  temple  in  her  children's  hearts, 
Save  to  the  vanity  and  pride  of  life 
Which  she  had  worshipped. 

For  the  might  that  clothed 
The  «  Pater  Patria?,"  for  the  glorious  deeds 
That  make  Mount  Vernon's  tomb  a  Mecca  shrine 
To  all  the  earth,  what  thanks  to  thee  are  due, 
Who,  'mid  his  elements  of  being,  wrought, 
We  know  not — Heaven  can  tell. 

Rise,  sculptured  pile 

And  show  a  race  unborn  who  rests  below ; 
And  say  to  mothers  what  a  holy  charge 
Is  theirs — with  what  a  kingly  power  their  love 
Might  rule  the  fountains  of  the  new-born  mind. 
Warn  them  to  wake  at  early  dawn — and  sow 
Good  seed  before  the  world  hath  sown  her  tares  ; 
Nor  in  their  toil  decline — that  angel  bands 
May  put  the  sickle  in,  and  reap  for  God, 
And  gather  to  his  garner. 

Ye,  who  stand, 

With  thrilling  breast,  to  view  her  trophied  praise, 
Who  nobly  reared  Virginia's  godlike  chief — 
Yc,  whose  last  thought  upon  your  nightly  couch, 
25 


292         THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON. 

Whose  first  at  waking,  is  your  cradled  son, 

What  though  no  high  ambition  prompts  to  rear 

A  second  Washington ;  or  leave  your  name 

Wrought  out  in  marble  with  a  nation's  tears 

Of  deathless  gratitude;— yet  may  you  raise 

A  monument  above  the  stars — a  soul 

Led  by  your  teachings,  and  your  prayers  to  God. 


293 


CHRISTIAN  SETTLEMENTS  IN  AFRICA 


WINDS  !  what  have  ye  gathered  from  Afric's  strand, 
As  ye  swept  the  breadth  of  that  fragrant  land  ? 
The  breath  of  the  spice-bud,  the  rich  perfume 
Of  balm  and  of  gum  and  of  flowret's  bloom  ? 
"  We  have  gather'd  nought,  save  a  pagan  prayer, 
And  the  stifling  sigh  of  the  heart's  despair." 

Waves  !  what  have  ye  heard  on  that  ancient  coast 
Where  Egypt  the  might  of  her  fame  did  boast, 
Where  the  statue  of  Memnon  saluted  the  morn, 
And  the  pyramids  tower  in  their  giant  scorn  ? 
u  We  have  heard  the  curse  of  the  slave-ship's  crew, 
And  the  shriek  of  the  chain'd  as  the  shores  withdrew." 

Stars !  what  have  ye  seen  with  the  glancing  eye 
From  your  burning  thrones  in  the  sapphire-sky  i 
"  We  have  mark'd  young  hope  as  it  brightly  glow'd, 
On  Afric's  breast  whence  the  blood-drop  flow'd, 
And  we  chanted  the  hymn  which  we  sang  at  first, 
When  the  sun  from  the  midnight  of  Chaos  burst." 


294 


THE  MOURNING  LOVER. 


THERE  was  a  noble  form,  which  oft  I  marked 
As  the  full  blossom  of  bright  boyhood's  charms 
Ripened  to  manly  beauty.     Nature  made 
His  eloquent  lip  and  fervid  eye  to  win 
Fair  woman's  trusting  heart. 

Yet  not  content, 

Because  ambition's  fever  wrought  within, 
He  went  to  battle,  and  the  crimson  sod 
Told  where  his  life-blood  gushed. 

The  maid  who  kept 

In  her  young  heart  the  secret  of  his  love, 
With  all  its  hoarded  store  of  sympathies 
And  images  of  hope,  think  ye  she  gave, 
When  a  few  years  their  fleeting  course  had  run, 
Her  heart  again  to  man  ? 

No  !  no  !     She  twined 
Its  riven  tendrils  round  a  surer  prop, 
And  reared  its  blighted  blossoms  toward  that  sky 
Which  hath  no  cloud.     She  sought  devotion's  balm, 
And,  with  a  gentle  sadness,  turned  her  soul 


THE  MOURNING  LOVER.  295 

From  gaiety  and  song.     Pleasure,  for  her, 

Had  lost  its  essence,  and  the  viol's  voice 

Gave  but  a  sorrowing  sound.     Even  her  loved  plants 

Breathed  too  distinctly  of  the  form  that  bent 

With  hers  to  watch  their  budding.     'Mid  their  flowers, 

And  through  the  twining  of  their  pensile  stems, 

The  semblance  of  a  cold,  dead  hand  would  rise, 

Until  she  bade  them  droop  and  pass  away 

With  him  she  mourned. 

And  so,  with  widowed  heart, 
She  parted  out  her  pittance  to  the  poor, 
Sat  by  the  bed  of  sickness,  dried  the  tear 
Of  the  forgotten  weeper,  and  enrob'd 
Herself  in  mercy,  like  the  Bride  of  Heaven. 
Fears  pass'd  away,  and  still  she  seemed  unchanged. 
The  principle  of  beauty  hath  no  age : — 
It  lookcth  forth,  even  though  the  eye  be  dim, 
The  forehead  frost-crowned,  yea,  it  looketh  forth, 
Wherever  there  doth  dwell  a  truthful  soul, 
That  in  its  chastened  cheerfulness  would  shod 
Sweet  charity,  on  all  whom  God  hath  made. 

Years  pass'd  away,  and  'mid  her  holy  toils 
The  hermit-heart  found  rest.     And  oft  it  seemed, 
When  on  her  self-denying  course  she  went, 
As  if  an  angel  folded  his  pure  wing 
Around  her  breast,  inspiring  it  to  hold 
A  saint's  endurance. 


25' 


296  THE 'MOURNING  LOVER. 

Of  her  spirit's  grief 

She  never  spake.     But  as  the  flush  of  health 
Receded  from  her  cheek,  her  patient  eye 
Gathered  new  lustre,  and  the  mighty  wing 
Of  that  supporting  angel  seemed  to  gird 
Closer  her  languid  bosom :  while  in  dreams 
A  tuneful  tone,  like  his  who  slumbered  deep 
Amid  his  country's  dead,  told  her  of  climes 
Where  vows  are  never  sundered. 

One  mild  eve, 

When  on  the  foreheads  of  the  sleeping  flowers 
The  loving  spring-dews  hung  their  diamond  wreaths, 
She  from  her  casket  drew  a  raven  curl, 
Which  once  had  clustered  round  her  lost  one's  brow, 
And  press'd  it  to  her  lips,  and  laid  it  down 
Upon  her  Bible,  while  she  knelt  to  pour 
The  nightly  incense  of  a  stricken  heart 
At  her  Redeemer's  feet.     Gray  morning  came, 
And  still  her  white  cheek  on  that  holy  page 
Did  calmly  rest.     Hers  was  that  quiet  sleep 
Which  hath  no  wakening  here.     Fled  from  her  brow 
Was  every  trace  of  pain,  and  in  its  stead 
Methought  the  angel,  who  so  long  had  been 
Her  comforter,  had  left  a  farewell-gift — 
That  smile  which  in  the  Court  of  ITeaven  doth  beam. 


297 


ALICE. 


A  daughter  of  the  late  Dr.  Mason  F.  Cogswell,  of  Hartford, 
Conn.,  who  was  deprived  of  the  powers  of  hearing  and  speech, 
cherished  so  ardent  an  affection  for  her  father,  that,  after  his 
death,  she  said,  in  her  strong  language  of  gesture,  "  her  heart 
had  so  grown  to  his,  it  could  not  be  separated."  She  was  sud 
denly  called  in  a  few  days  to  follow  him  :  and  from  the  abodes 
of  bliss,  where  we  trust  she  has  obtained  a  mansion,  may  we 
not  imagine  her  thus  addressing  the  objects  of  her  fondest 
earthly  affections? 


SISTERS  !  there's  music  here  ; 

From  countless  harps  it  flows, 
Throughout  this  bright  celestial  sphere 
Nor  pause  nor  discord  knows. 
The  seal  is  melted  from  my  ear 

By  love  divine, 
And  what  through  life  I  pined  to  hear, 

Is  mine  !     Is  mine  ! 

The  warbling  of  an  ever-tuneful  choir, 
And  the  full  deep  response  of  David's  sacred  lyre 


298  LAYS  FROM  ABOVE. 

Did  kind  earth  hide  from  me 

Her  broken  harmony, 

That  thus  the  melodies  of  heaven  might  roll, 
And  whelm  in  deeper  tides  of  bliss,  my  rapt,  my  wonder 
ing  soul  ? 

Joy ! — I  am  mute  no  more, 
My  sad  and  silent  years, 
With  all  their  loneliness  are  o'er, 
Sweet  sisters  !  dry  your  tears  : 
Listen  at  hush  of  eve — listen  at  dawn  of  day — 
List  at  the  hour  of  prayer — can  ye  not  hear  my  lay? 
Untaught,  unchecked  it  came, 

As  light  from  chaos  beamed, 
Praising  his  everlasting  name, 

Whose  blood  from  Calvary  streamed — 
And  still  it  swells  that  highest  strain,  the  song  of  the 
redeemed. 

Brother ! — my  only  one  ! 

Belov'd  from  childhood's  hours, 
With  whom,  beneath  the  vernal  sun, 
I  wandered  when  our  task  was  done 
And  gathered  early  flowers  •, 

I  cannot  come  to  thee, 
Though  'twas  so  sweet  to  rest 

Upon  thy  gently-guiding  arm — thy  sympathizing  breast: 
'Tis  better  here  to  be. 


LAYS  FROM  ABOVE.  299 

No  disappointments  shroud 

The  angel-bowers  of  joy, 
Our  knowledge  hath  no  cloud. 

Our  pleasures  no  alloy. 
The  fearful  word — to  part, 

Is  never  breathed  above, 
Heaven  hath  no  broken  heart — 

Call  me  not  hence,  my  love. 

O,  mother ! — He  is  here 

To  whom  my  soul  so  grew, 
That  when  death's  fatal  spear 
Stretched  him  upon  his  bier, 

I  fain  must  follow  too ! 
His  smile  my  infant  griefs  restrained — 

His  image  in  my  childish  dream 
And  o'er  my  young  affections  reigned, 

With  gratitude  unuttered  and  supreme. 
But  yet  till  these  refulgent  skies  burst  forth  in  radiant 

show, 
I  know  not  half  the  unmeasured  debt  a  daughter's  heart 

doth  owe. 

Ask  ye,  if  still  his  heart  retains  its  ardent  glow  ? 
Ask  ye,  if  filial  love 
Unbodied  spirits  prove  ? 
'Tis  but  a  little  space,  and  thou  shalt  rise  to  know. 


300  LAYS  FROM  ABOVE. 

I  bend  to  soothe  thy  woes, 

How  near — thou  canst  not  see — 

I  watch  thy  lone  repose, 

Alice  doth  comfort  thee; 
To  welcome  thee  I  wait — blest  mother !  come  to  me. 


301 


DREAM  OF  THE  DEAD. 


SLEEP  brought  the  dead  to  me.     Their  brows  were  kino 
And  their  tones  tender,  and,  as  erst,  they  blent 
Their  sympathies  with  each  familiar  scene. 
It  was  my  earthliness,  that  robed  them  still 
In  their  material  vestments ;  for  they  seemed 
Not  yet  to  have  put  their  glorious  garments  on. 
Methought,  'twere  better  thus  to  dwell  with  them, 
Than  with  the  living. 

'Twas  a  chosen  friend, 

Beloved  in  school-day's  happiness,  who  came, 
And  put  her  arm  through  mine,  and  meekly  walked, 
As  she  was  wont,  where'er  I  willed  to  lead, 
To  shady  grove  or  river's  sounding  shore, 
Or  dizzy  clif^  to  gaze  enthralled,  below, 
On  wide-spread  landscape  and  diminished  throng. 
One,  too,  was  there,  o'er  whose  departing  steps 
Night's  cloud  hung  heavy  ere  she  found  the  tomb ; 
One,  to  whose  ear  no  infant  lip,  save  mine, 
E'er  breathed  the  name  of  mother. 


302  DREAM  OF  THE  DEAD. 

In  her  hour 

Of  conflict  with  the  spoiler,  that  fond  word 
Fell  with  my  tears  upon  her  brow  in  vain — 
She  heard  not,  heeded  not.     But  now  she  flew, 
Upon  the  wing  of  dreams,  to  my  embrace, . 
Full  of  fresh  life,  and  in  that  beauty  clad 
Which  charmed  my  earliest  love.     Speak,  silent  shade 
Speak  to  thy  child !    But  with  capricious  haste 
Sleep  turned  the  tablet,  and  another  came, 

A  stranger  matron,  sicklied  o'er  and  pale, 
And  mournful  for  my  vanished  guide  I  sought. 
Then,  many  a  group  in  earnest  converse  flocked. 

Upon  whose  lips  I  knew  the  burial-clay 
Lay  thick ;  for  I  had  heard  its  hollow  sound, 

In  hoarse  reverberation,  "dust  to  dust!" 
They  put  a  fair,  young  infant  in  my  arms, 

And  that  was  of  the  dead.     Yet  still  it  seemed 

Like  other  infants.     First  with  fear  it  shrank, 

And  then  in  changeful  gladness  smiled,  and  spread 

Its  little  hands  in  sportive  laughter  forth. 

So  I  awoke,  and  then  those  gentle  forms 

Of  faithful  friendship  and  maternal  love 

Did  flit  away,  and  life,  with  all  its  cares, 

Stood  forth  in  strong  reality. 

Sweet  dream. 

And  solemn !  let  me  bear  thee  in  my  soul 

Throughout  the  live-long  day,  to  subjugate 

My  earth-born  hope.     I  bow  me  at  your  names. 


DREAM  OF  THE  DEAD.  303 

Sinless,  and  passionless,  and  pallid  train ! 
The  seal  of  truth  is  on  your  breasts,  ye  dead ! 
Ye  may  not  swerve,  nor  from  your  vows  recede, 
Nor  of  your  faith  make  shipwreck.     Scarce  a  point 
Divides  you  from  us,  though  we  fondly  look 
Through  a  long  vista  of  imagined  years, 
And,  in  the  dimness  of  far  distance,  seek 
To  hide  that  tomb,  whose  crumbling  verge  we  tread 


304 


THE  NEW-ZEALAND  MISSIONARY. 


1  We  cannot  let  him  go.  He  says  he  is  going  to  return  to  Eng 
land — the  ship  is  here  to  take  him  away.  But  no — we  will  keep 
him  and  make  him  our  slave ;  not  our  slave  to  fetch  wood  and  draw 
water,  but  our  talking -slave.  Yes — he  shall  be  our  slave,  to  talk  to 
and  to  teach  us.  Keep  him  we  will."— Speech  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Yates,  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  Church  Missionary  Society,  Lon 
don,  May,  1835. 


'TWAS  night,  and  in  his  tent  he  lay. 

Upon  a  heathen  shore, 
While  wildly  on  his  wakeful  ear 

The  ocean's  billows  roar ; 
'Twas  midnight,  and  the  war-club  rang 

Upon  his  threshold  stone, 
And  heavy  feet  of  savage  men 

Came  fiercely  tramping  on. 

Loud  were  their  tones  in  fierce  debate,- 

The  chieftain  and  his  clan, 
"  He  shall  not  go — he  shall  not  go, 

That  missionary  man; 


THE  NEW-ZEALAND  MISSIONARY.  305 

For  him  the  swelling  sail  doth  spread, 

The  tall  ship  ride  the  wave, 
But  we  will  chain  him  to  our  coast, 

Yes,  he  shall  be  our  slave : 

Not  from  the  groves  our  wood  to  bear, 

Nor  water  from  the  vale, 
Nor  in  the  battle-front  to  stand, 

Where  proudest  foe-men  quail, 
Nor  the  great  war-canoe  to  guide, 

Where  crystal  streams  turn  red : 
But  he  shall  be  our  slave  to  break 

The  soul  its  living  bread." 

Then  slowly  peer'd  the  rising  moon, 

Above  the  forest-height, 
And  bathed  each  cocoa's  leafy  crown 

In  tides  of  living  light : 
To  every  cabin's  grassy  thatch 

A  gift  of  beauty  gave, 
And  with  a  crest  of  silver  cheer'd 

Pacific's  sullen  wave. 

But  o'er  that  gentle  scene  a  shout 

In  sudden  clangor  came, 
"  Come  forth,  come  forth,  thou  man  of  God, 

And  answer  to  our  claim  :" 


306  THE  NEW-ZEALAM)  MISSIONARY. 

So  down  to  those  dark  island-men, 
He  bow'd  him  as  he  spake, 

"  Behold,  your  servant  will  I  be 
For  Christ,  my  master's  sake." 


307 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  ADAM  CLARKE 


KNOW  ye  a  prince  hath  fallen  ?     They  who  sit 
On  gilded  throne,  with  rubied  diadem, 
Caparisoned  and  guarded  round,  till  death 
Doth  stretch  them  'neath  some  gorgeous  canopy, 
Yet  leave  no  foot-prints  in  the  realm  of  mind — 
Call  them  not  kings — they  are  but  crowned  men. 
Know  ye  a  prince  hath  fallen  ? 

Nature  gave 

The  signet  of  her  royalty,  and  years 
Of  mighty  labor  won  that  sceptred  power 
Of  knowledge,  which  from  unborn  ages  claims 
Homage  and  empire,  such  as  time's  keen  tooth 
May  never  waste.     Yea — and  the  grace  of  God 
So  witnessed  with  his  spirit,  so  impelled 
To  deeds  of  Christian  love,  that  there  is  reared 
A  monument  for  him,  which  hath  no  dread 
Of  that  fierce  flame  which  wrecks  the  solid  earth. 

I  see  him  'mid  the  Shetlands,  spreading  forth 
The  riches  of  the  Gospel — kneeling  down 
To  light  its  lamp  in  every  darkened  hut : — 
26* 


308  DEATH  OF  DR.  ADAM  CLARKE. 

Not  in  the  armor  of  proud  learning  braced, 

But  with  a  towel  girded — as  to  wash 

The  feet  of  those  whom  earthly  princes  scorn. 

I  see  him  lead  the  rugged  islander 

Even  as  a  brother,  to  the  Lamb  of  God, 

Counting  his  untaught  soul  more  precious  far 

Than  all  the  lore  of  all  the  lettered  world. 

I  hear  his  eloquence — but  deeper  still, 
And  far  more  eloquent,  there  comes  a  dirge 
O'er  the  hoarse  wave.     "All  that  we  boast  of  man, 
Is  as  the  flower  of  grass." 

Farewell — Farewell ! 

Pass  on  with  Wesley,  and  with  all  the  great 
And  good  of  every  nation.     Yea ! — pass  on 
Where  the  cold  name  of  sect,  which  sometimes  throws 
Unholy  shadow  o'er  the  heaven-warmed  breast, 
Doth  melt  to  nothingness — and  every  surge 
Of  warring  doctrine,  in  whose  eddying  depths, 
Earth's  charity  was  drowned,  is  sweetly  lost 
In  the  broad  ocean  of  eternal  love. 


309 


MARRIAGE  HYMN 


NOT  for  the  summer-hour  alone, 
When  skies  resplendent  shine, 

And  youth  and  pleasure  fill  the  throne. 
Our  hearts  and  hands  we  join ; 

But  for  those  stern  and  wintry  days 

Of  peril,  pain,  and  fear, 
When  Heaven's  wise  discipline  doth  make 

This  earthly  journey  drear. 

Not  for  this  span  of  life  alone, 

Which  as  a  blast  doth  fly, 
And  like  the  transient  flower  of  grass 

Just  blossom,  droop,  and  die  ; 

But  for  a  being  \vithout  end, 

This  vow  of  love  we  take : 
Grant  us,  oh  God !  one  home  at  last, 

For  our  Redeemer's  sake. 


310 


DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  WIFE. 


WHY  is  the  green  earth  broken  ?     Yon  tall  grass, 
Which  in  its  ripeness  woo'd  the  mower's  hand, 
And  the  wild  rose,  whose  young  buds  faintly  bloom'd, 
Why  are  their  roots  uptorn  ?     Why  swells  a  mound 
Of  new-made  turf  among  them  ? 

Ask  of  him 

Who  in  his  lonely  chamber  weeps  so  long 
At  morning's  dawn,  and  evening's  pensive  hour, 
Whose  bosom's  planted  hopes  might  scarcely  boast 
More  firmness,  than  yon  riven  flower  of  grass. 

Yet  hath  not  Memory  stores  whereon  to  feed, 
When  Joy's  young  harvest  fails  ?  as  clings  the  bee 
To  the  sweet  calyx  of  some  smitten  flower  ? 

— Still  is  remembrance — grief.     The  tender  smile 

Of  young,  confiding  Love,  its  winning  tones, 

Its  self-devotion,  its  delight  to  seek 

Another's  good,  its  ministry  to  soothe 

The  hour  of  pain,  come  o'er  the  hermit  heart 

To  claim  its  bitterest  tear. 


DEATH  OF  A  \OUNG  WIFE.  311 

But  that  meek  Faith, 
Which  all  distrustful  of  its  holiest  deeds 
So  strongly  clasp'd  a  Saviour's  feet,  when  Death 
Rang  the  crush'd  heart-strings  like  a  broken  harp, 
That  Hope  which  shed  its  seraph-benison 
On  all  who  wept  around,  that  smile  which  left 
Heaven's  stainless  semblance  on  the  breathless  clay, 
These  are  the  tokens  to  the  soul  bereav'd, 
To  gird  itself  invincibly,  and  seek 
A  deathless  union  with  the  parted  bride. 


312 


THE  LITTLE  HAND. 


THOU  wak'st,  my  baby  boy,  from  sleep, 
And  through  its  silken  fringe 

Thine  eye,  like  violet,  pure  and  deep, 
Gleams  forth  with  azure  tinge. 

With  what  a  smile  of  gladness,  meek, 

Thy  radiant  brow  is  drest, 
While  fondly  to  a  mother's  cheek 

Thy  lip  and  hand  are  prest. 

That  little  hand !  what  prescient  wit 

Its  history  may  discern, 
When  time  its  tiny  bones  hath  knit 

With  manhood's  sinews  stern  ? 

The  artist's  pencil  shall  it  guide  ? 

Or  spread  the  adventurous  sail  ? 
Or  guide  the  plough  with  rustic  pride, 

And  ply  the  sounding  flail  ? 


THE  LITTLE  HAND.  313 

Through  music's  labyrinthine  maze, 

With  dexterous  ardor  rove, 
And  weave  those  tender,  tuneful  lays 

That  beauty  wins  from  love  ? 

Old  Coke's  or  Blackstone's  mighty  tome, 

With  patient  toil  turn  o'er  ? 
Or  trim  the  lamp  in  classic  dome. 

Till  midnight's  watch  be  o'er  ? 

Well  skilled,  the  pulse  of  sickness  press  ? 

Or  such  high  honor  gain 
As,  o'er  the  pulpit,  raised,  to  bless 

A  pious  listening  train  ? 

Say,  shall  it  find  the  cherished  grasp 

Of  friendship's  fervor  cold  ? 
Or,  shuddering,  feel  the  envenomed  clasp 

Of  treachery's  serpent-fold  ? 

Yet,  oh !  may  that  Almighty  Friend. 

From  whom  existence  came. 
That  dear  and  powerless  hand  defend 

From  deeds  of  guilt  and  shame. 

Grant  it  to  dry  the  tear  of  woe, 
Bold  folly's  course  restrain. 


314  THE  LITTLE  HAND. 

The  alms  of  sympathy  bestow, 
The  righteous  cause  maintain — 

Write  wisdom  on  the  wing  of  time, 
Even  'mid  the  morn  of  youth. 

And  with  benevolence  sublime, 
Dispense  the  light  of  truth — 

Discharge  a  just,  an  useful  part 
Through  life's  uncertain  maze. 

Till  coupled  with  an  angel's  heart, 
It  strike  the  lyre  of  praise. 


315 


BABE  BURIED  AT  SEA. 


THE  deep  sea  took  the  dead.     It  was  a  babe 
Like  sculptur'd  marble,  pure  and  beautiful 
That  lonely  to  its  yawning  gulfs  went  down. 
— Poor  cradled  nursling — no  fond  arm  was  there 
To  wrap  thee  in  its  folds ;  no  lullaby 
Came  from  the  green  sea-monster,  as  he  laid 
His  shapeless  head,  thy  polished  brow  beside, 
One  moment  wondering  at  the  beauteous  spoil 
On  which  he  fed.     Old  Ocean  heeded  not 
This  added  unit  to  his  myriad  dead  ; 
But  in  the  bosom  of  the  tossing  ship 
Rose  up  a  burst  of  anguish,  wild  and  loud, 
From  the  vex'd  fountain  of  a  mother's  love, 
-^The  lost!  The  lost!    Oft  shall  her  startled  dream, 
Catch  the  drear  echo  of  the  sullen  plunge 
That  whelm'd  the  uncofTm'd  body — oft  her  eye 
Strain  wide  through  midnight's  long  unslumbering  watch 
Remembering  how  his  soft  sweet  breathing  seem'd 
Like  measured  music  in  a  lily's  cup, 
And  how  his  tiny  shout  of  rapture  swelled, 
27 


316  BABE  BURIED  AT  SEA. 

When  closer  to  her  bosom's  core,  she  drew 
His  eager  lip. 

Who  thus,  with  folded  arms, 
And  head  declined,  doth  seem  to  count  the  waves, 
And  yet  to  heed  them  not  ?     The  sorrowing  sire, 
Doth  mark  the  last,  faint  ripple,  where  his  child 
Sank  down  into  the  waters.     Busy  thought 
Turns  to  his  far  home,  and  those  little  ones. 
Whom  sporting  'mid  their  favorite  lawn  he  left, 
And  troubled  fancy  shows  the  weeping  there, 
When  he  shall  seat  them  once  more  on  his  knee, 
And  tell  them  how  the  baby  that  they  lovM, 
Hid  its  pale  cheek  within  its  mother's  breast, 
And  pin'd  away  and  died — yet  found  no  grave 
Beneath  the  church-yard  turf,  where  they  might  plant 
The  lowly  mound  with  flowers. 

But  tell  them  too, 

Oh  father !  as  a  balsam  for  their  grief, 
That  He  who  guards  the  water-lily's  germ, 
Through  the  long  winter,  and  remembereth  well 
To  bring  its  lip  of  snow  and  broad  green  leaf 
Up  from  the  darkness  of  its  slimy  cell 
To  meet  the  summer  sun — will  not  forget 
Their  little  brother,  in  his  ocean  bed, 
But  raise  him  from  the  deep,  and  call  him  forth 
With  brighter  beauty,  and  a  glorious  form, 
Never  to  fade,  nor  die. — 


317 


THE  BENEFACTRESS. 


WHO  asks  if  I  remember  thee  ?  or  speak  thy  treasur'd 

name  ? 
Doth  the  frail  rush  forget  the  stream  from  whence  its 

greenness  came? 
Doth  the  wild,  lonely  flower  that  sprang  within  some 

rocky  dell 
Forget  the  first,  awakening  smile  that  on  its  bosom  fell  ? 

Did  Israel's  exil'd  sons,  when  far  from  Zion's  hill  away, 
Forget  the  high  and  holy  house,  where  first  they  learn'd 

to  pray  ? 
Forget  around  their  Temple's  wreck  to  roam  in  mute 

despair, 
And  o'er  its  hallow'd  ashes  pour  a  grief  that  none  might 

share  ? 

Remember  thee  ?    Remember  thee  ? — though  many  a  year 

hath  fled 
Since  o'er  thy  pillow  cold  and  low,  the  uprooted  turf  was 

spread, 


318  THE  BENEFACTRESS. 

Yet  oft  doth  twilight's  musing  hour,  thy  graceful  form 

restore, 
And  morning  breathe  the  music-tone,  like  Memnon's  harp 

of  yore. 

The  simple  cap  that  deck'd  thy  brow,  is  still  to  Memory 

dear, 
Her  echoes  keep  thy  cherish'd  song  that  lull'd  my  infant 

ear; 
The  book,  from  which  my  lisping  tongue  was  by  thy 

kindness  taught, 
Gleams  forth,  with  all  its  lettered  lines,  still  fresh  with 

hues  of  thought. 

The  flowers,  the  dear,  familiar  flowers,  that  in  thy  garden 

grew, 
From  which  thy  mantel-vase  was  fill'd — methinks,  they 

breathe  anew; 

Again,  the  whispering  lily  bends,  and  ope  those  lips  of  rose, 
As  if  some  message  of  thy  love,  they  linger'd  to  disclose. 

'Tis  true,  that  more  than  fourscore  years  had  bow'd  thy 

beauty  low, 

And  mingled,  with  thy  cup  of  life,  full  many  a  dreg  of  woe, 
But  yet  thou  hadst  a  better  charm  than  youthful  bloom 

hath  found, 
And  balm  within  thy  chasten'd  heart,  to  heal  another's 

wound. 


THE  BENEFACTRESS.  319 

Remember  thee  ?    Remember  thee  ?  though  with  the  blest 

on  high, 

Thou  hast  a  mansion  of  delight,  unseen  by  mortal  eye, 
Comes  not  thy  wing  to  visit  me,  in  the  deep  watch  of 

night, 
When  visions  of  unutter'd  things  do  make  my  sleep  so 

bright  ? 

I  feel  thy  love  within  my  breast,  it  nerves  me  strong  and 

high 
As  cheers  the  wanderer  o'er  the  deep,  the  pole-star  in  the 

sky, 
And  when  my  weary  spirit  quails,  or  friendship's  smile 

is  cold, 
I  feel  thine  arm  around  me  thrown,  as  oft  it  was  of  old. 

Remember  thee !  Remember  thee !  while  flows  this  pur 
ple  tide, 

I'll  keep  thy  precepts  in  my  heart,  thy  pattern  for  my 
guide, 

And,  when  life's  little  journey  ends,  and  light  forsakes 
my  eye, 

Come,  hovering  o'er  my  bed  of  pain,  and  teach  me  how 
to  die. 


271 


320 


THE  BROKEN  VASE. 


So,  here  thou  art  in  ruins,  brilliant  Vase, 
Beneath  my  footsteps.     'Tis  a  pity,  sure, 
That  aught  so  beautiful,  should  find  its  fate, 
From  careless  fingers. 

Fain  would  I  divine 

Thy  history.     Who  shap'd  thy  graceful  form, 
And  touch'd  thy  pure,  transparent  brow  with  tints 
Of  varied  hue,  and  gave  the  enamel'd  robe, 
Deep-wrought  with  gold  ? 

Thou  wert  a  costly  gift. 

Perchance,  a  present  to  some  fair  young  bride, 
Who  'mid  her  wedding-treasures  nicely  pack'd 
Thee  in  soft  cotton,  that  the  jarring  wheel, 
O'er  the  rough  road  careering,  might  not  mar 
Thy  symmetry.     Within  her  new  abode, 
She  proudly  plac'd  thee,  rich  with  breathing  flowers, 
And  as  the  magic  shell  from  ocean  borne 
Doth  hoard  the  murmur  of  its  coral- caves, 
So  thou  didst  tell  her  twilight  reverie,  tales 
Of  her  far  home,  and  seem  to  breathe  the  tones 


TITE  BROKEN  VASE.  321 

Of  her  young,  sportive  sisters. 

'Tis  in  vain ! 

No  art  may  join  those  fragments,  or  cement 
Their  countless  chasms. 

And  yet  there's  many  a  wreck 
Of  costlier  things,  for  which  the  wealth  of  Earth 
May  yield  no  reparation. 

He,  who  hangs 

His  all  of  happiness  on  beauty's  smile, 
And,  'mid  that  dear  illusion,  treads  on  thorns, 
Heeding   no  wound,  or  climbs  the  rocky  steep 
Unconscious  of  fatigue,  hath  oft-times  mark'd 
A  dying  dolphin's  brightness  at  his  feet, 
And  found  it  but  the  bubble  of  his  hope, 
Disparting  like  the  rainbow. 

They  who  run 

Ambition's  race,  and  on  their  compeers  tread 
With  fever'd  eagerness  to  grasp  the  goal, 
Beheld  the  envied  prize,  like  waxen  toy, 
Melt  in  the  passion-struggle. 

He,  who  toils 

Till  lonely  midnight,  o'er  the  waning  lamp, 
Twining  the  cobweb  of  poetic  thought, 
Or  forging  links  from  Learning's  molten  gold, 
Till  his  brain  dazzles,  and  his  eye  turns  dim, 
Then  spreads  his  gatherings  with  a  proud  delight 
To  the  cold-bosom'd  public,  oft  perceives 
Each  to  his  "  farm  and  merchandise"  return 


THE  BROKEN  VASE. 

Regardless  of  his  wisdom,  or  perchance 
Doth  hear  the  hammer  of  harsh  criticism, 
Grinding  his  ore  to  powder,  finer  far 
Than  the  light  sand  of  Congo's  yellow  stream. 
— Yea,  'mid  earth's  passing  pilgrims,  many  a  one 
Of  its  new  gained  possessions,  fondly  proud, 
Doth,  like  the  Patriarch,  find  his  seven  years'  toil 
Paid  with  a  poor  deceit. 

Crush'd  Vase,  farewell. 

I  thank  thee  for  thy  lesson.     Thou  hast  warn'd 
That  the  heart's  treasures  be  not  rashly  risk'd 
In  earthen  vessels,  but  in  caskets  stor'd, 
Above  the  wrecking  ministry  of  Time. 


323 


THE  MOHEGAN  CHURCH. 


AMID  those  hills,  with  verdure  spread, 
The  red-brow'd  hunter's  arrow  sped, — 
And  o'er  those  waters,  sheen  and  blue, 
He  boldly  launched  his  bark  canoe, 
While  through  the  forests  glanc'd  like  light 
The  flying  wild  deer's  antler  bright. — 
Ask  ye  for  hamlet's  peopled  bound, 
With  cone-roofed  cabins  circled  round  ? 
For  chieftain  brave  ?  for  warrior  proud, 
In  nature's  majesty  unbowed  ? 
You've  seen  the  fleeting  shadow  fly, 
The  foam  upon  the  billows  die, — 
The  floating  vapour  leave  no  trace, — 
Such  was  their  path — that  fated  race. 

Say  ye,  that  kings,  with  lofty  port, 
Here  held  their  stern  and  simple  court? — 
That  here,  with  gestures  rudely  bold 
Stern  orators  the  throng  controll'd  ? — 

Methinks,  even  now,  on  tempest  wings, 
The  thunder  of  their  war-shout  rings, 


324  THE  MOHEGAN  CHURCH. 

Methinks  again  with  reddening  spire 
The  groves  reflect  their  council  fire. — 
No ! — No  ! — in  darkness  rest  the  throng, 
Despair  hath  checked  the  tide  of  song,— 

Dust  dimm'd  their  glory's  ray. 
But  can  these  staunch  their  bleeding  wrong, 
Or  quell  remembrance  fierce  and  strong  ? 

Recording  angel,  say ! 

I  mark'd  where  once  a  fortress  frown'd, 
High  o'er  the  blood-cemented  ground, 
And  many  a  deed  that  savage  tower 
Might  tell,  to  chill  the  midnight  hour ; — 
But  now,  its  ruins  strangely  bear 
Fruits,  that  the  gentlest  hand  might  share; 
For  there,  a  hallowed  dome*  imparts 
The  lore  of  Heaven  to  listening  hearts  ; 
And  forms  like  those  which  lingering  staid, 
Latest  'neath  Calvary's  awful  shade, 

And  earliest  pierced  the  gathered  gloom 

i 
To  watch  a  Saviour's  lowly  tomb, 

Such  forms  have  soothed  the  Indian's  ire, 
And  bade  for  him,  that  dome  aspire. 

*  On  the  ruins  of  a  fort  in  the  territory  of  the  once  powerful  tribe 
of  Mohegans,  in  the  vicinity  of  Norwich,  Connecticut,  a  small  and 
neat  church  has  been  erected,  and  the  services  of  a  missionary  en 
gaged, — principally  through  the  influence  of  the  benevolence  of 
females. 


THE  MOHEGAN  CHURCH.  325 

Now,  where  tradition,  ghostly  pale, 
With  ancient  horrors  loads  the  vale, 
And  shuddering  weaves,  in  crimson  loom 
Ambush,  and  snare,  and  torture-doom, 
There  shall  the  Saviour's  ritual  rise, 
And  peaceful  hymns  invoke  the  skies. — 

Crushed  race ! — so  long  condemned  to  moan. 
Scorned, — rifled, — spiritless,  and  lone, 
From  pagan  rites,  from  sorrow's  maze, 
Turn  to  these  temple-gates  with  praise  : 
Yes,  turn  and  bless  the  usurping  band 
That  rent  away  your  fathers'  land ; 
Forgive  the  wrong — suppress  the  blame, 
And  view  with  Faith's  fraternal  claim, 
Tour  God — your  hope — your  heaven  the  same. 


326 


THE  THRUSH. 


"  I'LL  pay  my  rent  in  music,"  said  a  thrush 
Who  took  his  lodging  'neath  my  eaves  in  spring, 
Where  the  thick  foliage  droop'd. — And  well  he  kept 
His  simple  contract. — Not  for  quarter-day 
He  coldly  waited, — nor  a  draft  requir'd 
To  stir  his  memory, — nor  my  patience  tir'd 
With  changeful  currencies, — but  every  morn 
Brought  me  good  notes  at  par,  and  broke  my  sleep 
With  the  wild  ringing  of  his  tuneful  coin. 

Often,  at  summer  morn,  a  burst  of  song 
Melodious  trilling  thro'  his  dulcet  pipes 
Falling  and  caught  again,  and  still  prolong'd, 
Betray 'd  in  what  green  nook  the  warbler  sat, 
Each  feather  quivering  from  excess  of  joy, 
While  from  his  open  beak  and  brightening  eye 
I  seem'd  to  read  the  assurance, — "  this  was  pour'd 
For  jour  especial  benefit." — The  lay 
With  overpowering  shrillness, — more  than  once 
Did  summon  me  to  lay  my  book  aside 
And  wait  its  close ;  nor  was  that  pause  a  loss, 
But  seem'd  to  tune  and  shape  the  inward  ear 
To  wisdom's  key-tone. 


THE  THRUSH.  327 

Then  I  had  my  share 

In  softer  songs,  that  cheer'd  his  brooding  mate 
Who  in  the  patience  of  good  hope,  did  keep 
Her  lengthen'd  vigil.     And  the  voice  of  love 
That  flow'd  so  fondly  from  his  bursting  soul, 
Made  glad  mine  own. 

At  length,  there  came  a  strain 
From  blended  throats,  that  to  their  callow  young, 
Breath'd  tenderness  untold ;  and  the  weak  chirp, 
Of  new-born  choristers,  so  deftly  train'd 
Each  in  the  sweet  way  that  he  ought  to  go, 
Mix'd  with  that  breath  of  household  charities 
Which  makes  the  spirit  strong.     And  so  I  felt 
My  debt  was  fully  paid,  and  deem'd  myself 
Most  fortunate,  in  these  our  days  to  find 
Such  honest  tenant. 

But  when  autumn  bade 

The  northern  birds  to  spread  their  parting  wing, 
And  that  small  house  was  vacant, — and  o'er  hedge, 
And  russet  grove,  and  forest  grey  with  years 
The  hush  of  silence  settled, — I  grew  sad 
To  miss  my  kind  musician,  and  was  fain 
To  patronize  with  a  more  fervent  zeal 
Such  fire-side  music,  as  makes  winter  short, 
And  storms  unheard. 

Yet  leave  within  our  hearts, 
Sweet  melodists, — the  spirit  of  your  praise, 
Until  ye  come  again,  and  the  brown  nest 
28 


328  THE  THRUSH. 

That  now  its  downy  lining  to  the  winds 
Turns  desolate,  shall  thrill  at  your  return 
With  the  loud  welcome  home. — 

For  he  who  touch'd 

Your  breasts  with  minstrelsy,  and  every  flower 
With  beauty,  hath  a  lesson  for  his  sons 
In  all  the  varied  garniture  that  decks 
Life's  banquet-board; — and  he's  the  wisest  guest 
Who  taketh  gladly  what  his  God  doth  send, 
Keeping  each  instrument  of  joy,  in  tune, 
That  helps  to  fit  him  for  the  choir  of  Heaven. 


329 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 

FROM  A  PICTUHE. 

How  doth  yon  picture's  art  relume 
Of  childhood's  scenes  the  buried  bloom ! 
How  from  oblivion's  whelming  stream 
Each  floating  flower  and  leaf  redeem ! 
From  neighbouring  spire,  the  iron  chime, 
That  told  the  school's  allotted  time, 
The  lowly  porch  where  woodbine  crept, 
The  floor,  with  careful  neatness  swept, 
The  hour-glass  in  its  guarded  nook, 
Which  oft  our  tiny  fingers  shook, 
By  stealth,  if  flowed  too  slow  away 
The  sands  that  held  us  from  our  play ; 
The  murmur'd  task,  the  frequent  tear, 
The  timid  laugh,  prolonged  and  dear, 
These  all  on  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
Come  thronging  back,  from  years  goite  by. 

And  there  thou  art !  in  peaceful  ag  e 
With  brow  as  thoughtful,  wild,  and  sage, 
As  when  upon  thy  pupil's  heart 
Thy  lessons  breathed — yes,  there  ihou  art ! 
And  in  thy  hand  that  sacred  Boot , 
Whereon  it  was  our  pride  to  look, 


330  THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 

Whose  truth  around  thy  hoary  head, 
A  never-fading  halo  shed, 
Whose  glorious  hopes  in  holy  trust 
Still  blossom  o'er  thy  mouldering  dust. 
Even  thus  it  is,  where'er  we  range 
Throughout  this  world  of  care  and  change, 
Tho'  Fancy  every  prospect  gild, 
Or  Fortune  write  each  wish  fulfill'd, 
Still,  pausing  'mid  our  varied  track, — 
To  childhood's  realm  we  turn  us  back,— 
And  wider  as  the  hand  of  time 
Removes  us  from  that  sunny  clime, 
And  nearer  as  our  footsteps  urge 
To  weary  life's  extremest  verge, 
With  fonder  smile,  with  brighter  beam. 
Its  far-receding  landscapes  gleam, 
And  closer  to  the  withered  breast, 
Its  renovated  charms  are  pres'. 

And  thus  the  stream,  as  on  it  flows, 
'Neath  summer  suns,  or  wintry  snows, 
Through  vale,  or  maze,  or  desert  led, 
Untiring  tells  its  pebbly  bed, 
How  passing  sweet  the  buds  ihaijlrst 
Upon  its  infant  marge  were  nurst, 
How  rich  the  violet's  breath  perfumed 
That  near  its  cradle  fountain  bloomed, 
And  deems  no  skies  were  e'er  so  fair 
As  kindled  o'er  its  birth-place  there. 


331 


DEATH  OF  THE  WIDOW'S  SON. 


HE  languished  by  the  way-side,  and  fell  down 
Before  the  noon-day.     In  his  hand  were  flowers 
Pluck'd  for  his  lady-love.     He  died  ere  they 
Upon  their  rootless  stalks  had  withered. 
In  his  fair  home  there  was  a  widow'd  form, 
To  whom  the  echo  of  his  coming  step 
Had  been  as  music.     Now,  alone  she  sits, 
Tearful  and  pale !  The  world,  henceforth,  to  her 
Is  desolate  and  void. 

Young  Love  may  weep, 

But  sunbeams  dry  its  tears,  and  the  quick  pulse 
Of  hope,  in  beauty's  bosom  doth  o'ercome 
The  syncope  of  grief. 

But  unto  age 

So  utterly  bereav'd — what  now  remains, 
Save  with  bow'd  head  and  finger  on  its  lip, 
In  silent  meekness,  and  in  sanctity, 
The  Heavenly  Pilot  ever  in  its  view, 
To  pass  the  narrow  strait  that  coldly  bars 
Time's  crumbling  shore,  from  vast  Eternity 

28* 


332 


PARTING  OF  A  MOTHER  WITH  HER  CHILD. 


HE  knew  her  not,  that  fair,  young  boy, — 

Though  cradled  on  her  breast, 
He  learn'd  his  earliest  infant  joy, 

And  took  his  nightly  rest, 
For  stern  disease  had  blanch'd  the  brow 

Once  to  his  gaze  so  dear, 
And  to  a  whisper  chang'd  the  voice 

That  best  he  loved  to  hear. 

So,  stranger-like,  he  wondering  gazed, 

While  wild  emotions  swell, 
As  with  a  deathlike,  cold  embrace, 

She  breathed  her  last  farewell, 
And  to  the  Almighty's  hand  gave  back 

The  idol  of  her  trust, 
And  with  a  glorious  hope  went  down 

To  slumber  in  the  dust. 

Go,  blooming  babe,  and  early  seek 

The  path  she  trod  below, 
And,  still  with  Christian  meekness,  strive 

To  pluck  the  sting  from  woe — 


PARTING  OF  A  MOTJiER  WITH  HER  CHILD.  333 

That  so,  to  that  all-glorious  clime, 

Unmarked  by  pain  or  care, 
Thou,  in  thy  Saviour's  strength  mayest  come 

And  know  thy  mother  there. 


334 


ALPINE  FLOWERS. 


MEEK  dwellers  'mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs, 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips, 
Whence  are  ye  ? 

Did  some  white-wing'd  messenger 
On  mercy's  mission,  trust  your  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows, 
And,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Bid  them  with  tear-drops  nurse  ye  ? 

Tree  nor  shrub 

Dare  the  drear  atmosphere, — no  polar-pine 
Uplifts  a  veteran  front,  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick-ribb'd  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  stedfast  eye  to  Him, 
Who  bids  ye  bloom  unblanch'd  amid  the  realm 
Of  desolation. 

Man  who,  panting,  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or  treads  the  dizzy  verge. 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  dowrn  which  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity, — looks  shuddering  up 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness, 


ALPINE  FLOWERS.  33-5 

Fearless,  yet  frail ;  and  clasping  his  chill  hands, 
Blesses  your  penciPd  beauty.     'Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain-summits  rushing  toward  the  sky, 
And  chaining  the  wrapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  ye,  drooping,  to  his  breast, 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost-wing'd  gale, 
And  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 


336 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE 
BODY. 


COMPANION  dear !  the  hour  draws  nigh 

The  sentence  speeds — to  die,  to  die. 

So  long  in  mystic  union  held, 

So  close  with  strong  embrace  compelled, 

How  canst  thou  bear  the  dread  decree, 

That  strikes  thy  clasping  nerves  from  me  ? 

— To  Him  who  on  this  mortal  shore, 

The  same  encircling  vestment  wore, 

To  Him  I  look,  to  Him  I  bend, 

To  Him  thy  shuddering  frame  commend. 

— If  I  have  ever  caus'd  thec  pain, 

The  throbbing  breast,  the  burning  brain, 

With  cares  and  vigils  turn'd  thee  pale, 

And  scorn'd  thee  when  thy  strength  did  fail — 

Forgive  ! — Forgive ! — thy  task  doth  cease, 

Friend  !  Lover ! — let  us  part  in  peace. 

If  thou  didst  sometimes  check  my  force, 

Or,  trifling,  stay  mine  upward  course, 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY.      337 

Or  lure  from  Heaven  my  wavering  trust, 
Or  bow  my  drooping  wing  to  dust — 
I  blame  thee  not,  the  strife  is  done, 
I  knew  thou  wert  the  weaker  one, 
The  vase  of  earth,  the  trembling  clod, 
Constrained  to  hold  the  breath  of  God. 
• — Well  hast  thou  in  my  service  wrought, 
Thy  brow  hath  mirror'd  forth  my  thought, 
To  wear  my  smile  thy  lip  hath  glow'd, 
Thy  tear,  to  speak  my  sorrows,  flowed, 
Thine  ear  hath  borne  me  rich  supplies 
Of  sweetly  varied  melodies, 
Thy  hands  my  prompted  deeds  have  done, 
Thy  feet  upon  mine  errands  run — 
Yes,  thou  hast  mark'd  my  bidding  well, 
Faithful  and  true !  farewell,  farewell. 

— Go  to  thy  rest,     A  quiet  bed 

Meek  mother  Earth  with  flowers  shall  spread, 

Where  I  no  more  thy  sleep  may  break 

With  fever'd  dream,  nor  rudely  wake 

Thy  wearied  eye. 

Oh,  quit  thy  hold, 

For  thou  art  faint,  and  chill,  and  cold, 
And  long  thy  gasp  and  groan  of  pain 
Have  bound  me  pitying  in  thy  chain, 
Though  angels  urge  me  hence  to  soar, 
Where  I  shall  share  thine  ills  no  more. 
— Yet  we  shall  meet.     To  soothe  thy  pain 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY. 

Remember — we  shall  meet  again. 

Quell  with  this  hope  the  victor's  sting, 

And  keep  it  as  a  signet-ring, 

When  the  dire  worm  shall  pierce  thy  breast, 

And  nought  but  ashes  mark  thy  rest, 

When  stars  shall  fall,  and  skies  grow  dark, 

And  proud  suns  quench  their  glow-worm  spark, 

Keep  thou  that  hope,  to  light  thy  gloom, 

Till  the  last  trumpet  rends  the  tomb. 

— Then  shalt  thou  glorious  rise,  and  fair, 

Nor  spot,  nor  stain,  nor  wrinkle  bear, 

And,  I  with  hovering  wing  elate, 

The  bursting  of  thy  bonds  shall  wait, 

And  breathe  the  welcome  of  the  sky — . 

"  No  more  to  part,  no  more  to  die, 

Co-heir  of  Immortality." 


Sigourney 


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